


Worth Fighting For

by Arisentactica



Category: Arthurian Mythology, XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Not The Legend You Know, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Part of Xabiarverse, Psionics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arisentactica/pseuds/Arisentactica
Summary: Connected to Xabiar's XCOM Trilogy. Arthur, son of Uther, son of Pendragon dreams of glory. He dreams of slaying great evil dragons, and saving beautiful princesses. But that is all they were, dreams. But when dreams come real, what then? Then there is only one thing left to do. Hold his sword, raise his banner, and fight, because he has something worth fighting for.
Kudos: 1





	1. Introduction

This story is inspired by the myth of King Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table

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This story is inspired by elements of the XCOM games by Firaxis

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This story may contain material, themes, and characters some may find disturbing

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Please note that content within this story does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the authors or those who have assisted in its creation

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Please note that reviews may contain spoilers

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This story takes place in established universe of Xabiar’s XCOM Trilogy (Also known as the Xabiarverse or XV)

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Principal Authors: **HailToTheKing** | **Onyx Stark (Arisentactica)** | **Mooloor**

Secondary Authors: Xabiar | OfficialWeedTesterGuy (Cran) | Zillian

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**Dramatis Personae**

[Please note that not all characters are listed]

 **Arthur Pendragon** | Heir to the Dragon’s Blood

 **Mordred Pendragon** | Brother of Arthur

 **Morgana Pendragon** | Sister of Arthur

 **Uther Pendragon** | Father of the Village Church

 **Merlin** | Exile of Felgrad’s Court

 **Reece Felgrad** | Member of the Royal House of Felgrad

 **Felgrad** | King of the Realm

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_Xabiar’s Note: While this story may have come as a surprise to some, it has been in the works for quite a long time, born out of an off-hand suggestion by one of my editors that a few of them took, ran with, and turned into something really impressive. There are going to be a lot of interesting things that happen, and while, yes, this will tie into the main series, this is also a creative and unique spin on the myth we are all familiar with._

_This is unique in the various spin-offs that have been done, in that there are multiple authors writing it. While I probably will be involved with a scene or two, this will primarily be written by the listed main authors, and I’m looking forward to people reading and enjoying this. It’s going to be quite a ride._

_\- Xabiar_

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_Mooloor’s Note: As Xabiar said, this was born out of an offhand comment someone made...around a year ago, at this point, I think. It started out as a (bad) single chapter that I wrote just for shits and giggles, and has been through around 3 partial or total rewrites at this point, becoming (in my opinion) one of the most exciting and gripping pieces of work in the XV, and definitely one of my favorite to help outline. It’s also been a lot of fun realising that the 6th century AD (when Arthur was supposed to have lived) was definitely not what you’d expect from the stereotypical medieval setting, as things like castles and plate armor hadn’t even been invented yet._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it, even if I was certainly not as involved in the creation process as HailToTheKing and Onyx, and I look forward to hearing about the Deep Thonks everyone comes up with._

_\- Mooloor_

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_Cran’s Note: Like Mooloor said, this started off as an offhand comment in a conversation between me and bloodsplatBOOM that basically went- ‘Hey, what if King Arthur and Excalibur were somehow connected to the Advent Directive?’ And here we are. I’m extremely pleased with how it’s turned out, and I hope you all enjoy it. I never imagined that comment would become this, but I’m more than happy that it is._

_-Cran_

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_Zillian’s Note: While I am not one of the authors of this story, my Chronicle story would not have been brought to life without the additions of the principal authors of Worth Fighting For. It was King’s suggestion that I should tie his story into my own and I am very happy with the result and I look forward to how his Arthurian myth will unfold._

_-Zillian_

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_King’s Note: All stories are principally the same story, they all hold the same elements, and they all hold the same storytelling techniques. What separates them is what they’re trying to say, or, perhaps, what underlying ideas are peeking out from under the dramatic curtain._

_Those ideas are what give a story heart, and even if soul. The idea at the heart of this story? Well, figuring that out is part of the fun._

_As with all sincerity, I thank my lovely wife, who helps in my art. I thank the friends of the Editing and Contributor team, who are all lovely and dignified people._

_I thank Thuzan for having an irregular capacity to engineer methods of destroying things._

_I thank Ashard for his knowledge and insight as a learned man._

_I thank Blood for being a lovely waifu._

_I thank Mooloor for his intellect and sanguine nature._

_I thank Cran for being a delightful person, and for his talent._

_I thank Onyx for his aid, skill, and help in planning._

_Thank you all, and may you all be blessed._

_\- HailToTheKing_

***

_Onyx’s Note: Hello and welcome to Worth Fighting For! This story is, as the first three notes said, the penultimate evolution of a comment that Cran and bloodsplatBOOM made. I couldn’t be more pleased with how it’s turned out._

_You know, when this idea came swirling around, I couldn’t help but be drawn in. Maybe it was because of that horrible first draft of a scene Mooloor did (which has since been incorporated into the story), or maybe it was because I’ve always wanted to hammer down just what happened with King Arthur and his story. Either way, this has been a work of sweat, tears (of laughter and some of sorrow, I’m not ashamed to admit), and some blood loss to my head from thinking about this and how everything would change. If it weren’t for King stepping in, after me blaming him for everything a few times, this story would never be what it is now._

_This has been a labor of love for all of us in appreciation of the wonderful world Xabiar came up with, and I couldn’t be more honored that I’ve been given the opportunity to be able to help expand on what he, his team, Areleh, Cran, and Zillian have done for this universe. I can’t wait for the Thonkhounds (looking at you, Gemini, DSB, and Kinnix and don’t give me those innocent looks either!) to sink their teeth into this story and make their guesses of what’s going on behind the scenes. It will be vastly amusing to watch them get things wrong._

_However, there is one last thing that I need to address, and that is the notes above. It warms my heart to see that my work has moved Mooloor to view this as the best of the XV, that Cran can’t wait to see this go forward, that Zillian decided (on King’s recommendation) to link this story with the Chronicle before WFF was even in shape to be published, and that Xab himself helped (and will continue helping…probably) with a scene or two and the final revision process. Thanks to all of them for helping this along, and thanks to King for pitching in with the cover art, his kind words about my non-existent skills as an author, and becoming the co-author he has. I hope you all enjoy this story. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m glad that it’s come to this point._

_Now, I’ve kept you long enough. Sit back, get ready, and enjoy the Xabiarverse’s take on the Legend of King Arthur!_

_\- Onyx_


	2. Arc 1 Chapter 1

**  
**

**Beholder of the Sword**

**1**

_Location: Glywssing, Kingdom of Wales_

_Time: Fifth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

Arthur huffed and puffed as Mordred and Morgana’s voices came closer. He knew he could catch them, and he even said so, but his siblings didn’t believe him. He came to a stop in a gap between the trees, brushing wayward bits of brown hair out of his eyes.

“Hey Arthy!” Mordred’s voice blared. “I’m right here!”

Arthur frowned, as he looked up at his brother hanging from a tree, his black hair rustling softly in the breeze, and his brown eyes, matching Arthur’s own, glimmering with mischief.

“That’s not fair!” Arthur yelled in response, indignant.

Mordred shrugged. “Not my fault you can’t climb,” he grinned. “Ser Bad-Lungs.”

Arthur scowled and picked up a tree branch. He threw it at his smug brother, who yelped and dropped to the ground. Mordred scowled at him as he got up. “That was cheating, Arthy, and you know it!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t dodge, Ser Falls-Alot,” Arthur shot back, grinning.

“Oh you…” Mordred’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Fine.” He threw his hands up. “Fine. Have this one Arthy.”

Arthur just grinned in response, before turning around and resuming the hunt for his wayward sister. Mordred scrambled to follow him, curious where their sister had hidden herself this time.

Behind them, Merlin groaned. “Slow down, you fools. I’d hate for you to get lost and get eaten by a wolf. Or a bear. Or stung by an insect,” he glared at Mordred. “Or to find you wrestling a snake.”

Mordred rubbed his sore backside. “Not my fault the snake tried to eat me.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Merlin rubbed his grey beard with a gnarled hand. “And it’s certainly not your fault that you grabbed the snake by the tail and used it as a whip.”

Arthur nodded enthusiastically, shooting his brother a mocking smile and imitating a whip cracking, complete with sound effects.

Mordred flushed. “Hmm,” he tried to grunt in a manly way, but his voice cracked, causing Arthur to cover his mouth with a hand to stifle the laughter that threatened to come out.

Arthur glanced at Merlin. “Look who’s happy.”

“Shut it,” Mordred murmured. Then he raised a hand, stopping Arthur in his tracks. “See that, Arthur?”

Arthur saw a spot of skin and brown hair behind a bush and crouched behind a tree. “Yes,” he said, just as quietly. “Left?”

Mordred hopped on his feet. “Right. How long do you think she’ll last this time?”

“Pfft.” Arthur waved a hand. “Grandpa, how long did Morgana last the last time we played this?”

Merlin gave the both of them a dull look. “Stop making fun of your sister, and make fun with your sister.”

Mordred shot off, legs pumping as he ate up ground. There was a long feminine shriek as Morgana bolted out of her hiding spot, giggling and stumbling.

Arthur went left. Mordred went right, and dear little Morgana found herself stuck between her two brothers, panting in exertion. Her usually well kept black hair was a mess with sticks and leaves in it, giving her a wild, dangerous feel… if it weren’t for the petulant expression on her face.

“Oh no,” she said, brown eyes wide.

“Oh yes,” Mordred said, hopping on his feet.

“Hello sister,” Arthur quipped. “Left or right?”

She ran left and both of them jumped on her, all three falling into a disheveled mess of limbs and laughter.

Merlin came into view. shaking his head, even as a small smile tugged at his lips. “Enjoying yourselves? You innocent, rambunctious children.”

Morgana chuckled as she tried to get out from underneath her brothers, her black hair an even bigger mess of knots and foliage than before their tangle on the ground. “You’re just jealous that you can’t join us in forest finders, Grandpa!”

“Me? Jealous? Preposterous,” Merlin declared, deadpan, though his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “I enjoy being a miserable old man with a crooked back and aching knees.”

Mordred got up first, pulling Arthur beside him. Morgana grinned as Arthur knelt down and offered her a hand.

“My hero,” she said with fake joy, even going as far as blinking up at him gratefully.

Mordred winced, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. “Oh, God, no.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she fluttered her eyelashes at Mordred, as Arthur barely pulled her up. He coughed slightly, and tried to clear his throat. It didn’t help. It felt as if something was lodged in his throat, dry and physical.

“You okay, Arthur?” Morgana asked, concerned.

Mordred rolled his eyes, even as he patted Arthur’s back soothingly. “He’s fine. He’s fine. He just ran too much today.”

The coughing accelerated, growing harder and harder. The world dimmed; Arthur swayed on his feet. He tasted iron, phlegm, and dust. It hurt, it hurt to breathe, it choked him. He could neither focus nor think.

Then he was back, gasping for air. Doubled over. Mordred hoisted him up by his armpits. “Better?” Mordred asked, grinning. “Ma’s making chicken soup today. Can’t have you buried before then.”

Arthur managed a weak grin. “What about after?”

“Hmmm.” Mordred hummed. “Not sure, what do you think, Grandpa Merlin?”

Merlin took out a corked bottle from his robes, and handed it over to Arthur. “Did you drink it yesterday?”

Arthur uncorked the bottle, and drank a long gulp. Feeling the thick, soupy liquid within soothe the pain. It tasted of sour fruit, honey and other ingredients he couldn’t guess.

His next breath came easier, his throat hurt less. “Yes, the whole bottle. Thanks, Grandpa.”

Merlin waved him off, frowning as he looked around for Morgana. “Where did your sister go?”

“Guys! Guys!” Morgana shouted, “Over here! I’ve found a bird!”

Mordred and Arthur shared a look and shrugged. Merlin followed them as they rounded the corner of a large tree, finding Morgana crouched and poking an albino raven with a long stick. It cawed at her, backed against the tree, rooted to the ground by its broken wing. The raven looked tired, crowing weakly, not even trying to move away.

“It broke its wing,” Morgana said. “Should we… should we leave it? Ravens are bad luck.”

Merlin leaned on his staff, craning his neck to look down on it. “Badly broken,” he grumbled. “I can see some bone and flesh.” He pointed at a few droplets of blood. “It’s bleeding.”

Arthur heard a rustle, turning to see Mordred playing with his knife, hesitant and uncertain. The sharp steel glinted in the sun.

“It’s late,” Mordred said, gathering courage. “Grandpa, can you start leading the way? I’ll follow in a moment.”

Morgana glared at him. “I’m not stupid,” she exclaimed. “Leave it alone, Mordred. Let God decide its fate.”

 _Not stupid?_ Arthur and Mordred raised their eyebrows, unconvinced of that statement.

Merlin tapped Morgana on the head with his staff. “Not now Morgana. Not now.” She opened her mouth to retort, but Merlin tapped her again. “We’re already late, it will be mid-day when we return.”

“Fine,” Morgana relented, casting a glance at Mordred.

They made to move, all but Arthur. Mordred prepared his knife, Merlin judged the distance to the town, but Arthur? He waited. His eyes and the raven’s meeting. Speaking without words.

Understanding, in a flash that lasted a moment, that they were the same. Arthur may never take a whole breath with his lungs, and that raven may not live to fly again. Neither of them were whole. Both had a piece of them taken.

 _We’re the same,_ he realized, feet moving. _We’re both the same. It’s not fair._

He knelt down, cooing gently. Cupping the raven between his fingers. “Shh,” Arthur whispered. “It’ll be fine.”

“Arthur,” Mordred hissed, moving to grab it from his hands. “Don’t be a fool, it’s not a dog. It’s a raven.”

Arthur didn’t reply, smiling softly at the raven. He looked beside him, and saw Merlin judging him. Old, nigh-ancient eyes thinking.

A decision finally reached, Merlin withdrew a bottle from his robes, uncorking it and letting the smell of alcohol waft out. He poured it over the raven’s wounds, the creature cawing weakly. He drew a white cloth, forming a makeshift splint around the raven’s body with a suitably sized stick.

“Unfurl its wing,” Merlin commanded. 

Arthur obeyed, even as Mordred stared at them with annoyance, before returning his knife to its sheath. In moments, with skilled motions rehearsed over long years, Merlin treated the raven. 

Morgana gushed at the tiny splint of its wing. “Can you teach me how to do that, Grandpa Merlin?”

He raised a hand in her direction, stopping her. His gaze locked on Arthur. “It’s going to die,” he declared with certainty.

Arthur didn’t reply, his focus on the weak and scared raven, cooing softly, the warmth of his hands calming it.

With a tilt of his head, Merlin hid his smile. It seemed there was going to be an addition to their little group. 

At least for a little while.

\--------------

  
When they reached the village, Merlin had Arthur holding the raven to his chest, careful to not jostle it overmuch. The hustle and bustle of the village was quiet cheer, men carrying lumber on their shoulders, women washing clothes.

Their house was one the most well off, directly beside the church. Mordred entered first, holding the door open for Arthur and Morgana. Merlin entered last, grumbling every step of the way about his bones.

“Merlin,” Igraine smiled widely, red lips stretched into something that almost looked fake. Wearing a plain brown dress with an apron over it to keep it from staining, and her brown hair tied back into a braid, she looked every inch the wife of a Father of the church.

“Did the boys behave?” She asked, pointedly looking at Mordred.

The boy cowered and sat demurely at the table, trying his best to look innocent. 

“Well enough.” Merlin sighed in relief as he sat down. “Morgana,” Merlin said without looking, “Stop trying to hide away and help your mother.”

Igraine’s smile became pointed and dangerous when she turned to look at her daughter. “Yes, Morgana. Help your mother.” She gestured with her shoulder to the soup pot. “Put in the vegetables and debone the chicken.”

Morgana pouted, her cheeks puffed out and her eyes taking on a somewhat pleading look. “I promised Lynette I would-” 

Igraine’s pointed smile turned sweet, the children unable to see through it.

Merlin could. He shivered, knowing that smile well. A smile promising retribution and humiliation. A true politician’s smile. Not for the first time, he wondered if she had ever been exposed to court life, where such smiles were as common as falsehoods.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Court life had left its marks on him, and suspicion was one.

“Yes mother,” Morgana shuddered, obeying.

Their work was quick, practiced. Igraine hummed a little cheery song under her breath, Morgana muttered ‘old hag’ when she thought no one could hear her, and Merlin made sure Arthur and Mordred didn’t kill each other over the raven bouncing on the table.

Igraine didn’t ask, instead she started placing the wooden bowls on the table. “How much do you want Merlin?”

Merlin scratched his beard. “How much do you have?”

“Half a bowl it is.” Igraine poured half a bowl, and not a drop more, ignoring Merlin’s exasperated look. 

“Women,” Merlin grumbled, picking up his spoon. 

“Mordred?” Igraine asked. 

“Half a bowl,” Mordred said, giving his mother a knowing, dull look. She smiled in response, tittering at him.

“Arthur, sweetheart, how are you today?” Igraine all but cooed. “Did you have fun?” 

“Yes mother,” Arthur said, sinking into his chair. His raven settled itself on his shoulder, feathers tickling him.

Mordred gagged, choking on thin air. Merlin grabbed his staff and tapped him none too gently on the head.

Igraine poured Arthur a full bowl. “Did you take care of your sister?”

Morgana decided it was her time to chime in. “He didn’t! And Mordred tried to kill the raven! And Arthur decided to take it home! And both of them tackled me!”

“Yes mother,” Arthur replied, swallowing. “We…Uhh...Were very gentle with Morgana.”

Mordred looked like he was trying to retract his head into his ribcage. 

“I see,” Igraine said as she and her daughter sat down proper, before leaning back, head craned upwards, and pursed her lips. “You’re late.”

Uther kissed her on the forehead before taking a seat for himself at the head of the table, his green eyes scanning the inhabitants of his house. “Lady Igema was insistent that I teach her son.” He picked up a spoon and sniffed at the soup before eating it. “Her charming demeanor was irresistible.” 

He was dressed in the simple white robes of the church, showing his life as one of purity, as the church demanded of its servants. His black hair looked as if it were groomed not a half hour ago, though it was this morning, when he had prepared himself for the day, that he had done anything to it.

“Charm?” Igraine said, her tone icy. “That woman is a whore, without an ounce of wit or dignity inside her.”

“Mother,” Morgana moaned. “Don’t be rude.”

Igraine huffed and turned to Arthur. “Your raven Arthur, what will you name it?”

“Raven?” Uther asked. 

His wife pointed at the raven on Arthur’s shoulder as the boy looked up, his spoon and Mordred’s locked in a death battle. The two slowly broke off as if nothing had happened. He turned towards Merlin.

“Bah. Children,” Merlin exclaimed. “Fine. Hmmm.” He started scratching his beard, playing with a lock of its thick hair. “Dillena.” He said, nodding to himself. “A fine name.”

Beside Merlin at the head of the table, Uther raised a brow. “Beautiful, fine, neat, chaste. Interesting name for a raven.”

“It is,” Merlin agreed, a smile hidden behind his hand. “Fitting too.”

The rest of the meal continued in chat. Morgana talking of a pretty dress she saw a merchant’s daughter wearing, Mordred talking about a wolf he had seen at night. Arthur quietly played with his raven.

Merlin watched it all, regret plain on his face. The emotion was hidden as well as it could be, but Arthur spotted it nonetheless.

Before he went to sleep, Arthur built the raven a bed of cloth and straw. Watching the bird cozy itself and rest its eyes, he slept, tired. Comfortable in his swaddling of furs.

Dillena beside him, he slept soundly.

When the sun rose, he laughed as he jumped off of the bed. His laugh and cheer died suddenly, as he looked at the other occupant of his bed. He poked her with a finger and sniffled when Dillena did not move. For hours he stood there, looking at the makeshift nest.

A gnarled, calloused hand rested on his shoulder; Merlin’s. Arthur’s wet eyes looked up, and he leaned against Merlin.

“You knew she would not last the night, my boy,” Merlin told him softly. “All living things must die, and Dillena’s time on this Earth has ended. Our time will come, young Arthur. Remember that.”

Arthur nodded somberly, wiping away tears from his cheeks.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

Arthur looked up to the great doors of the church, where his father would be, as he always was, delivering advice and guidance.  
  
As he ran up the steps, the doors opened, revealing his father in his robes, holding a book as he walked down the stairs. His father’s mouth curled into a smile, a nod gesturing that Arthur was noticed.  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“Father. How are you?”  
  
“I am well, my son. Very well. You’ve caught me at a convenient time. Lady Igema wished me to attend to her son,” Uther paused when he saw the expression of disbelief. “Unless you prefer to accompany me to their house?”  
  
“Needed an excuse?” Arthur asked, with a raised brow.  
  
Uther placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, leading them back into the church. “Let us call it an unforeseen turn of events. Follow me.”   
  
Arthur followed his father into the church, where they sat at one of the many benches. “What is it you want, Arthur?”  
  
“I need help, father.”  
  
“With what, son?”   
  
Arthur took a breath. “I want to apprentice with a warrior.”   
  
His father exhaled. “And, again, I forbid you from such.”  
  
Arthur folded his arms, glaring defiantly. “It’s what I want.”  
  
“Ah yes,” he nodded. “Your dream of becoming a warrior in shining armor, protecting the masses? Saving damsel princesses from horrid dragons?”   
  
“ _Must_ you say it in such a mocking voice?”   
  
“Son…” he sighed, putting his book on his lap, shaking his head. “You simply _cannot_. You are not ready, you will never be ready. Your health will not permit it. You simply are not fit.”   
  
Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “That will not stop me. You _know_ I have conviction, faith in both myself and our Lord. Doesn’t that mean something, anything?”  
  
“Faith and conviction are not everything, my dear son,” he explained gently. “Yes, they helped me on the path, but it was more than that. It was my strength, my want for what I felt I needed at the end. And I wanted to be a priest, delivering the words of the faithful and the holy to those who needed guidance. So I studied, I asked questions, I learned and disciplined myself. It took a decade of my life, Arthur. What you want will not simply fall from the sky.”  
  
“I understand that.” Arthur bit back his tongue. “I understand what you do. The thing is why you do it. I feel...I feel like becoming a scholar is not enough. I just feel like there’s something _more_ for me. It’s just this feeling.”  
  
His father raised an eyebrow. “A feeling will not help you succeed. Nor will the imaginary armor you wish to don and bring into combat. This kind of thinking may well get you killed. This you must understand.”   
  
“But father-”  
  
“No buts. Not this time. You must dispose of this way of thinking. Stop idolizing your grandfather. Stop dreaming of becoming Pendragon returned.”  
  
“He was an exemplar of virtue! A paragon that hunted bandits, stopped criminals and protected the innocent." Arthur exclaimed. "I want to be like _him_.”  
  
“Arthur.” Uther cut in, then sighed. “Come here, come closer.” He wrapped an arm around his son and pulled Arthur to his side. “Did I ever tell you the first time I saw my father in combat?”  
  
“No,” Arthur mumbled.   
  
“I was young, Arthur, a young man, newly wed to your mother. Your grandmother had died recently, and your grandfather wished a new start for us, so we took to the road.”   
  
Arthur snuggled in his father’s arms.   
  
“I used to hear stories of my father, they would call him the _Terror of Dawn, the Sword of the King.”_ Uther paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “They say in the fields of war, he would leave trails of dead men in his wake.”  
  
Uther could almost remember it, the warriors avoiding Pendragon’s eyes. Their whispers, their fear and respect of the Pendragon. “He prayed all night, before war, and he would always rise to fight at dawn, so that he could spend the rest of the day in prayer.”  
  
 _I remember it, father. Your blood-soaked visage. You never could hide it from mother or I._  
  
“Did he?” Arthur asked, hesitant. “Leave trails of the dead?”

 _They lied._ Uther did not say. _He left piles of them, piles and piles. He broke swords and spears. He made widows beyond count, and orphans that died in starving and in mourning._

“No, it was an exaggeration...” Uther said. “Though it held truth.”

 _It was worse, far worse._ He shivered. _How many, father?_ Uther wanted to ask. _How many lives did you take for Felgrad?_

“On the road, seven men accosted us. Demanded our meagre coin and my father’s sword as recompense for safe passage.”

Arthur’s eyes were trapped in Uther’s, earnest and gentle. A heart of gold, and a spine of iron. _So much like yours, father. So much like yours._

“He did not kill them Arthur. He slaughtered them, and we later found their widows asking about them..” Uther said, softly. “Alone, with nothing but an old blade, he cut them down, all seven of them. He was a good man, your grandfather was. But he could never smile or laugh. He knew the weight of his sins.”

 _And your hair had started to go grey and white._ Uther felt his eyes become wet. _How great were you in your prime?_ He stared into Arthur’s face. _How much does he look like you?_

“No,” Uther said, with a shake of his head, “You need not be a warrior.”

“But why? Grandfather saved us.”

His father grunted in a sign of annoyance. “And in exchange, he orphaned and widowed more than seven others. That was his purpose, the cause of a warrior. To kill. Their only task and skill was to take, nothing more, nothing less. How could they truly save a life when all they did was take them?”

“By killing someone who is about to kill another person,” Arthur replied confidently.

His Father’s eyebrows furrowed. “Your grandfather fought all his life. He changed nothing. The poor still ask for food. The sick still need healers. The druids and shamans still lead men astray. The world does not need more killers, it needs more healers and scholars.”

“I-”

“You will say no more of this,” Uther said. “I will find you a monastery to teach you, perhaps a scholar to take you under his wing.”

“I do not want any of this, father.” Arthur tried. “I-”

Uther placed his hand on Arthur’s head, rubbing it. “Arthur, your grandfather was a good man. All the same, he committed great evils for no true purpose at all. You deserve a better life.”

_Sometimes I wonder, father, the sort of monster you could have been. Perhaps bandit lord to scourge the lands. A great warlord who could not be overthrown. Or maybe a hungry beast, content to take young girls and gold, and kill those who opposed him._   
_I wonder how many like you, father, became just that._

Arthur was quiet, a stubborn ilk of quiet. An angry ilk of quiet. 

He glanced down at Arthur. _How many of them, these monsters, would kill you, my son, without a hint of effort on a battlefield?_

“Go,” he told the fuming Arthur. 

Arthur opened his mouth to retort.

“This conversation is over, son. I have told you enough. Go. Be back in time for dinner.” he said, with a hint of contempt and sorrow. 

When Arthur left, Uther sat on one of the pews, prayer beads wrapped around his hand, looking up at the cross. “Arthur,” he said, letting his anger fade. “May your path be as good as your intentions.”

In solemn silence, Uther sat in contemplation and prayer.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

Arthur left the church with crushed hopes and sagging shoulders. This didn’t go unnoticed by the villagers, especially a group of brown-haired boys near Arthur’s age. Said group chose precisely that time to walk up to Arthur. Jonus led them, Osric at his right, and Edsel trailing right at the back of the group.

“Artur.” Jonus lisped, his green eyes glinting. “Look who we have here boyth, it'th Bad-Lungth.”

Arthur tried to pass through, but Osric body-slammed him. The larger boy was filled from head to toe with nothing but muscle. A Blacksmith’s physique, from working with his father, and his skin was darker as a result. His black eyes were also bloodshot from the fumes of the forge.

“Jonus.” Arthur went for intimidation. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

“Why?” Jonus picked at his nose. “You’ve go’th some’thin better ta do?”

“Father Uther asked me to help today,” Arthur continued. “You want to annoy my father, Jonus?”

“He’s lying,” Edsel said, shifting at the attention. “I heard Father Uther yell at ‘im.”

He felt his stomach drop, just in time for Jonus to start smiling. “Eh’ thath right?”

Arthur tried running. Tried. Osric laid a meaty hand on his shoulder and effortlessly pulled him along. Edsel giggled at that, an ugly sound, hollow, without any joy. A self-serving sound.

“Ey’ thee?” Jonus said as they dragged Arthur away from the church. “Thith ith eathy, ai’thth.” 

Osric frowned, confused. “I don’ understand Jonus.”

“He said ‘Easy, this is easy, ain’t it.” Edsel replied.

Jonus glared at him. “I can talk Ed’thel.”

“I was just helping.” Edsel threw his hands into the air. “Don’t get angry at me.”

“Where you wan’ ‘im Jonus?” Osric asked, voice deep and low. “Der’?” He asked, pointing at a spot outside the village proper, behind Osric’s house. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Edsel said, his brown eyes glancing at Osric, wilting under his glare. “I- erm, I said hasty! Don’t be hasty.”

“Shuth ith.” Jonus frowned. “Shuth ith.” He tried again. 

“You mean ‘shut it’ Jonus?” Edsel asked.

Arthur tried to slip under Osric, but the boy just punched him. The world flashed white, and Arthur reeled, feeling his body spin and dance, and losing his focus outright as the world blurred together. 

“Dammit Osric.”

“He wan’ to run.”

“Righth there. Thplash him with wather.” 

“You wan’ what?”

“He said splash him with water.” 

Arthur gasped, coughing for air as he felt the icy water sap the heat from him. “Wha-?” He gasped. “What did you..?” He shook his head, mental strings reattaching. 

_One punch_ , Arthur felt fear creep in, _one punch and Osric nearly sent him to sleep._

“Wakey wakey,” Jonus smiled at him. “Wanth to be a warrior righth?” 

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Arthur replied. 

Edsel stepped up, getting in Arthur’s face. “He said ‘you wanth tho be-”

Arthur chose that moment to apply all his courage, and to channel his inner Mordred. “I. Don’t. Care.” He slammed his head into Edsel’s face, hopping back to his feet, surging to a standing position.

Blood splattered, thin droplets hitting the ground. “Jonus!” Edsel sniveled, voice nasally. “He hit me!”

“Yeah,” Jonus laughed. “Yeah, he did!” he laughed even harder, leaning on Osric. “You just leth him head buth you!”

“Jonus!” Edsel moaned. 

“Fine, fine.”

Arthur steeled himself, looking around to see where he was. In the forest, somewhere close to the village. 

“Osric.” Jonus started, smiling wide. “Beath thith arroganth idioth.”

“You wan’ wat?” Osric asked, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“He said,” Edsel hissed, pointing at Arthur. “Beat that arrogant bastard!”

Osric grinned and advanced on Arthur, who raised his arms in defense. Osric capitalized on the one mistake Arthur made: leaving his stomach open. Osric slammed his fist into Arthur’s midriff and watched as he fell to the ground, gasping and trying not to throw up. 

“Oi!” A voice called behind them. They turned to see Mordred marching up to them, an angry scowl fixed on his face. “Leave my brother alone!” 

Jonus scowled and got in the smaller boy’s face. “Run along ya wee blighth, or you’ll regreth ith.” 

Mordred scoffed and immediately hammered the older boy’s face with a fist, sending him reeling back. He marched past the shocked bully and was stopped by Osric and Edsel.

Mordred nearly gulped, but stood firm. “Left.”

A blur went right, spinning on the balls of his feet. Arthur had recovered enough to get up in the wake of his brother’s distraction, his fist landing square on Edsel’s cheek, making a fitting reentry into the fight, despite his still-pained stomach. 

Edsel fell on his side, holding his cheek and nose. It was bent slightly, and blood was coming out of it. He must have been in shock, because he stayed there, a slight shake in his hands, not reacting to anything else. 

Mordred smirked and turned to face Osric, who had rounded on his brother, his cheeks red and his fists clenched tightly. 

“Care for some help, brother mine?” Mordred quipped, causing Osric to turn his head to glance at him before rushing at Arthur. 

The two of them slammed their fists into Osric’s guts. “Dat’ dun hurt.” Osric said, scratching his head. “Yo dink dis hurt?” Then Osric punched, his fist flying, his whole body flowing into the motion.

Mordred didn’t see it. He felt it though. The world shook. His body trembled, the world spun and flipped. He heaved, realizing he was face first in the dirt. 

His head turned left in time to see Arthur hit the dirt, coughing, struggling to draw breath as he gasped. 

“Hey Arthy,” Mordred whispered. “See that stick?”

Arthur nodded, between bouts of coughing. 

“Go run for it, grab it, and break the brute’s knee, get ready,” Mordred hands hit the ground and he pushed, grunting as he rolled to his feet. In one flowing motion, Mordred hand-pulled Arthur to his feet and ran at Osric

“Hey idiot!” he yelled.

Osric’s face crumbled with anger. “Dun’ call me dat!”

Osric swung, air rippling, his fist hurtling towards Mordred’s face.

Morded bent down the heavy swing ruffling his hair as it missed. Up, his legs pumped as he rose and- 

-another fist came for him. He blocked it.   
_Crunch_. 

His arm bent wrong. Mordred didn’t stop. His left hand came swinging at Osric, slamming him in the groin. 

Osric gasped. 

“Now!” Mordred hissed, pain white-hot on his mind. Arthur didn’t come. Nothing happened. He turned and heard Arthur’s strangled coughing.

Jonus grinned, holding Arthur by his neck with a stick, choking Arthur with ease.

Osric stepped forward, wheeling on his foot as his arm reared back, his whole body flung into one, violent, instance. 

“Oh.” 

The punch came.

Mordred braced himself, knowing he would feel pain. He did. He felt it ramming into him. Hammering and spreading all over his face. Then he heard a crack in his jaw, and the pain intensified. He felt dirt. He felt pain. The world made no sense.

He could hear Arthur cough, and it came rushing back to him. He stood up, swaying. Breathing heavily. “Hey. Arttur,” Morded gasped, struggling to speak.

Jonus barked out in laughter. “You talth like me now.”

“Reitt.” Mordred tried to work his jaw. “Reiitt.”

He received a nod, it was all he needed, just the knowledge that Arthur understood. Just the confirmation. That was it.

A low gurgling laugh left Mordred’s throat. Up. He stood up, shaking, body dull with pain. He glared at Osric, motion as if to sprint at him.

Osric was at his left.

Arthur was at his right.

Mordred went right.

Arthur smiled, his cough hiding it.

Mordred’s fist struck Jonus with everything he could muster and Jonus grunted, his hold on Arthur broken. Arthur moved left and slipped the stick from Jonus, whirling around and lashing out with it. Jonus choked, clutching his throat as he fell, sprawling and gasping on the ground.

Osric came for them, Mordred jumped on him, fist hammering at his face. Arthur went at his back, hammering his knee out with the stick. 

Osric kneeled.

Mordred swung, his fist careening into Osric’s face. Nose crumpling, blood flying, and eyes rolling back… 

Osric fell.

“Hey,” Mordred said, he raised a fist. 

Arthur smiled tiredly, breaths long and wheezing. “Hey.” He met Mordred’s fist, bumping it softly.

Mordred suddenly collapsed, dust rising as his body impacted the forest dirt. Arthur wheezed, kneeling, wrapping his arms around Mordred, and dragging him.

Slowly.

Certainly.

Arthur didn’t stop until he reached Merlin’s hut, not even when the cough stole his breath and the last thing he saw was Grandpa Merlin’s shocked gaze. He heard the old man’s surprised squawk before he collapsed as well. 

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

He couldn’t sleep. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sleep. In his ramshackle bed, covered in thinning, tattered furs, he flipped and tossed and turned, trying in vain to calm himself, to rest his mind.

In the end, he simply laid flat staring at the ceiling. “Mordred.” He called out, he received no answer. A glance, and he saw both Mordred and Morgana soundly asleep in their beds. He was the only one awake.

Mordred choked, then turned.

Arthur tossed.

Mordred groaned in pain.

Arthur turned.

Then tossed and turned once again.

Mordred whimpered, shifting his face.

He needed to leave, to move, to go out. Anywhere but his room. He rose from his bed, holding his fraying nerves as steady as he could. He slipped on his cloak and shoes, sliding out of the house, silent as a mouse.

Before he knew it, he was running. Houses blurring past him, his breath choking and his coughs coming and going. He didn’t stop. He ran. He ran. He ran until he collapsed, sweating and heaving in a mess. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry Mordred.” 

It was his fault, the entire thing was his fault for starting a fight. Because he was an immature brat. Because he couldn’t handle it with strength of character, instead he had to go and fight. Because of him, Mordred was hurt. He laid his head against the tree trunk. “I’m so sorry.” He muttered.

Mordred would never speak correctly ever again. Because of him.

Because he needed to show how much stronger he was. Father was angry, mother was furious, Morgana didn’t stop crying. The village elders would gather tomorrow to sentence punishment, and all of it, everything that transpired.

“All of because of-”

A rat scurried away and Arthur blinked, his line of thought broken as he stared at the rat. The rat didn’t care for him, it continued running for its life. Except that nothing was chasing it.

Then he saw its shadow, a shadow that couldn’t belong to it, not in the middle of night. Following a hunch, he looked up, and with wide eyes, he watched as the sky became alight with flame. Red, orange, and white traced the night sky, lighting the dark as if it were a miniature sun. The radiance was blinding to behold. He flinched, turning away from it. Then the world thundered, the earth quaked, and he saw trees fly, sundered to raining splinters.

Far off, glowing white hot, as though from a forge, he saw a tower of metal. Mist rose off of it, a cloud of steam, visible even from his distance, like a star, cast from heaven. In his mind, he asked himself whether this was what it looked like when the Devil fell. It was as if a star had been exiled, thrown out, made unwelcome in its home.

He craned his neck, staring at the heavens. He stood up, moving to where the great piece of metal now towered. Unable to tear his eyes from it, unable to move anywhere but towards it, as water was unable to move anywhere but downstream. Arthur would be there first. Before the adults investigated, far earlier than anyone else. The idea spurred him, made him move. Made him scramble, then run, run to maybe see and learn for himself, an unknown calling drawing him in.

Why did he want to see that thing so desperately? He neither knew, nor cared for the irrational impulse.

He knew the forest well from the days upon days spent playing in it. He navigated the fallen trees, twisting roots, and narrow paths with ease. When he lost sight of the tower of metal, he instead followed the path of destruction.

Then he reached it, a great building of metal, sundered and broken. Laid low, he could see the scars, the small fires and the sparks. It was not strange, not when his mind caught up to him. How could something cast out from heaven not be scarred and rent?

What held his eyes were the beasts. Many-eyed and many-nosed and gutted, all of them. They were mangled, bloody things. Their snarling, razor-toothed expressions almost...afraid. None would leave this place alive, and they knew it, and so did Arthur.

Some were in too many pieces to count, while others had simply been injured by metal shards, or had lost their limbs. He tried to pass through, and one grabbed his leg. Feebly trying to pull at it, before losing its grasp and falling limp.

Suddenly, there was a voice. It didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular, yet he still heard it in his head. It was a chorus. Dull. Broken and shattered. Surging in volume, then dimming. It was like the sound of broken glass, of the nearly-dead. It was unceasing, demanding to be heard.

Arthur hesitated, his eyes finding the strange, dead beast-men. Unnatural, neither animal nor man. Something twisted, between the two states…

The sound came once more. It was the sound his Mother made when he didn’t get a little brother and Arthur had to call Merlin. It was the sound his father made when men came and demanded sheep. He knew that sound, it was anger and defiance. It was the dying howl of a great beast.

‘‘God protect me,’’ he whispered.

Something pulled him in, made him enter the metal structure. His own feet, hands, and heart betraying him as he followed the compulsion. He simply moved, unsure of the source of his sudden desire, of the courage.

He was the moth to the flame, and he had to see for himself.

  
\--------------

The stench hit him, somehow sweet and rancid at the same time, stinging his nose and watering his eyes. Head shaking, Arthur trudged on. Blood squelched beneath his boots, his gaze flicked from corpse to corpse. Whatever had happened here, it was nothing short of a slaughter. 

His gaze settled on a long furrow beside six bisected beasts, guts hanging out. Swallowing, Arthur looked away. 

He had seen animals killed, he’d seen them butchered. He’d never seen beast-men ripped to pieces with violent intent and brutal design. The scene didn’t stop, it simply kept on repeating. Beheaded beast-men, beast-men hung by metal wires. Beast-men with their hearts ripped out, limbs torn off, and faces pulped. 

Between the many-eyed beasts, for every score of corpses, he saw the dead of a different type. Their helmets two-horned, their armor adorned with glowing lines and starburst patterns. He ignored those, didn’t think on why they were surrounded by the dead of the beast-men.

He did not stop, he could not stop.

Arthur heard his heart. Felt it squeeze into his chest. Speeding and hurtling against the cage of his ribs. His guts constricted, legs refusing to obey. He forced them to move. To obey. With nothing but eyes wide in terror and possessive courage, he pushed through.

He pushed through the horror, the blood, and viscera.

Then he saw the gates. Massive, glimmering crimson in blood and gore. Beast-men lay around it. Over it. To its side. They were torn asunder, each and every single beast-man made to meat ribbons, except one, hand reaching for the door. Mouth wide open in death. Drenched in its own blood, but still in one piece.

Arthur hesitated, gaze locked on the gates. The colossal dent and the gaping slit at its center told him they had been battered open at one point. The splatter of blood, also, told him that more of this butchery awaited. 

His foot fell and blood splattered. He stepped forth. His fist clenched, the reverberating fear reigned in.

Arthur felt as if a boundary was there, he heard a sound echoing. His senses tingled, and, if he focused, he could almost hear a sound that he knew wasn’t real. A sound in his head, not one heard by his ears.

His head pummeled.

He could turn back.

His fists clenched.

He could go back home.

His feet moved.

His palms slammed into the gate. With one, heaving push, the door groaned open, and Arthur’s breath was stolen from him as the world flashed white. Colors bleached from reality.

One moment, Arthur was opening the gate. The next, he stood in a realm of white, black and grey. There was a single being opposite him. Where lines of black gave definition to pillars of grey and white, perched atop a throne of skulls and burned books, was an armored warrior.

Behind him, six hundred and three black shadows, their eyes aglow in all colors of the rainbow. Their gazes centered on him. Some were hunched over, some kneeling. Others looking down, heads tilted at odd angles. A legion of wispy, shadowed specters. All staring at him, through him. 

Between them and Arthur was the warrior.

Silver armor, embellished with enameled white script and decorated with suns and stars and circles. Lines of white, flowing softly from joint to plate, separated by coiling bundles of woven muscle.

“A child. What has brought you here?” The Warrior said, the deep timbre of the voice coming from everywhere and nowhere, the voice coming from inside his head. “Curiosity. I see...”

The warrior stepped to the ground from atop the throne and stalked forward. “I would tell you to leave, but you will not. You are curious, curious to know. Curious to see creation in all its wonders and majesty. In all its horror and beauty. You see the world as it could be, not as it is.”

He stopped before Arthur, towering over the boy, then, slowly, he sat down, a step’s distance away, a pillar forming at his back. “I would tell you to go home, to sleep and rest. Live your life in peace and serenity, find love and family. To leave me and this place. But you will not listen.”

The warrior lowered his head. “There is nothing here for children with dreams. Nothing to fight for. Nothing worth living for. Not anymore.”

“Why are you talking as if...” Arthur hesitated. “As if you don’t exist?”

The Warrior’s head snapped up, and the sightless helmet looked to him, seeming to cut right through his flesh into his mind. “Would it matter, even if I did?”

“You’re talking like Grandpa Merlin,” Arthur replied, quietly. “Whenever he thinks nobody can hear him. Like it doesn’t matter anymore. Like you just gave up!”

“You have no comprehension of-” The Warrior stopped, then looked at his hands. “You are right,” he acknowledged. Then laughed, a short horrid rasp. “I was.” 

His eyes locked on Arthur. “But it doesn’t matter. The die was cast, and I have lost beyond anything you could understand.”

Arthur huffed. “Keep trying,” he stated innocently, without thinking, unaware of what he was saying or even why.

“Keep trying.” The Warrior rose to his full height, and Arthur heard the ghost of a laugh, a mockery of true joy, tainted with something he couldn’t place. “Keep trying?” Before Arthur’s eyes, the legion of specters smiled as their eyes glimmered with joy.

“Keep trying?” The Warrior looked down. “Yes. You are right. Even if I wish it were not, even if I wanted to give up and let it all mean nothing.” 

He stepped towards Arthur, the world of white rippling around him.

“I fought, once. I gave it all I ever had, and I failed,” the Warrior said, conviction rising. “You are right, I forgot myself. We must fight, even if all of creation stands in our path, even to our certain death. We. Must. Fight.”

Arthur listened, feeling his heart trumpet in his chest. “Why?”

“For a world that could be, that should be..” the Warrior whispered, with the weight of over six hundred lifetimes behind the words. “That shall be.” The Warrior hissed, and the world quaked as the specters slammed their feet on the ground.

Up.

Down.

They slammed their fists on their chests. 

They made a beat of their fists and feet. 

“For a world that shall be.” The Warrior roared. The specters’ slamming chorus roared with him. “For what we could make of our existence. A world of serenity. A garden of peace and prosperity, unmarred by the greed of tyrants.”

The Warrior moved his arm, spread it flat, then pierced his own chest with it.

Blood splattered, enameled steel bent and broke and shattered. Veins like wires ripped as the warrior tore out his still-beating heart. 

It was white, as white as the rest of this place. As marked and defined by black lines as the rest of this place.

He could not take his eyes off of it.

“I swore to make heaven,” the Warrior said. “Until all the stars die, by the Mandate of the Creator. By the blood of the cruel, and the bones of monsters, we make certain our dream. I have seen your mind, what you desire, how you dream of being gallant and righteous. Take it.” He extended his hand, beating heart first. An offer. “It is all I have. All I can give for someone who reminded me.”

“The torch must pass.” The Warrior said. In his eyes burned a deep hunger, a fire reignited. “In the face of certain death, the fire must burn. Until it can burn no longer.”

“Take it.” The Warrior urged. “Take all that I am, take my hunger, take my zealous rage, take my wrath - and my mercy.”

The heart was set ablaze, a miniature star. The Warrior raised it, closer to Arthur. “Take my faith, cloak yourself in my honor and piety, stand tall with my bravery, and raise yourself to never falter.”

Arthur took the offered heart

His hands grasped it, a blazing star, clutched in his grasp.

The warrior smiled and spoke. The words rang in Arthur’s head. Ancient. Venerable. An oath long sworn and long memorized. Seina’ Ivunur.

He knew what the words meant, understood them at a base level, even though the sounds and letters made no sense to him. All the same, he knew. Knew the meaning as precisely as if he had spoken the language all his life.

_Immortal of heart._

He knew the response. His mouth opened of its own volition. Tongue moving, throat and lungs creating sounds he had never heard before. “Reina’ Gundur.”

_Mailed of fist._

The realm of white shattered and broke like glass. Arthur's eyes snapped open, gasping and reeling. He looked up, and saw the room. Saw it truly, with certainty, with his own vision. Corpses lined the carpeted path, their life fluids staining the ground red, staining everything red. At the end of the line of death, he stood.

There, at the end. A broken, battered warrior; his armor filled gouges and furrows. Holes from front to back showed his insides. The horns atop his helmet were broken, and one of his eyes was missing.

Blood dripped to the ground, oozing from every pore. 

Still, the warrior stood, stumbling forward, pushing his flesh and blood to the breaking point. With his hands, he tore at his armor. Ripping it, and his flesh beneath it, off. Blood drenched him as more and more pieces were removed. The last piece upon his mangled flesh was the helmet. With an agonized grunt and the sound of flesh splitting apart, the helmet came off, showing just what he was. 

Then, he stood before Arthur, a dying, pale-skinned, hoofed, and two-horned creature. Smiling a soft, gentle smile. Flayed alive by removing his armor.

 _Gather your courage,_ a voice rang in his head, the Warrior’s. _In pain, you will be reborn. In steel, you will be remade. By your will, you will become the sacred oath._

The Warrior placed the helmet on Arthur’s head, and Arthur suddenly felt faint. He fell to his knees, dizzy and confused. Then he felt something pierce his skin in multiple places, drilling into his very skull, and all he could do was scream in pain. 

His head pounded. Pain carved into him piece by piece, and he distantly felt something begin to encase him. It was the armor, he realized belatedly. With that revelation, however, the pain increased tenfold, and Arthur’s screams grew louder for mere moments before he fell silent, unable to scream, or utter any sound at all. 

He barely managed to focus enough to understand the voice when it spoke. 

By Heaven’s will, you will become the Divine Mandate.

Dimly trying to figure out what they meant, Arthur’s world faded into agony and inky blackness.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

  
Merlin hobbled through the forest as the first rays of sun began to warm his back. He picked the sleep out of his eyes and grumbled to himself. When Arthur’s mother had come to him, sobbing hysterically about her son being missing, he knew exactly where the child would be. The thing had made quite a noise as it fell, sufficient to wake most of the village. 

So it was that Merlin now found himself freezing in the forest, his back and knees screaming as he clambered over and around thorny bushes and fallen trees. Something was off. It took him several seconds to place, but he suddenly realised why he felt so uneasy. There were no animals. 

Normally, at this time, the nightcrawlers would be making their way back to their hovels, while the early birds would be looking for the first worms of the morning. As long as he had lived, this had been the case, he’d even documented some cycles of the forest when he was younger. Yet, on this day, there was nothing. 

A blood-curdling scream of pain to his left made him jolt, his head whipping to look for the source. Just as he began to stride in the direction of the scream, another left the blood frozen in his veins. These were the screams you heard coming from King Felgrad’s deepest dungeons, not something that should be heard in the forest by the village. He began to run as quickly as his aging joints would allow towards whatever had produced the noise. 

He entered a clearing and saw… something of unbelievable scale. A metal tower, fallen, but taller than the village chapel. Scattered around the trees torn from the ground, he saw strange beast-men, many eyed and many nosed beast-men. A few fires still burned in the smaller bushes and inside the strange structure, and Merlin made sure to avoid those, lest they burn his tattered robes. 

As he began to enter the twisted, rent corridors, he saw a black, armored-looking figure stumble through the hallway in front of him, swaying side to side, before falling to its knees, clearly in immense pain. 

“Stay back!” he shouted. 

“G-grandpa? Grandpa... It hurts. Please, it hurts. Make it stop!” the figure said, in a familiar, but oddly-tinged voice, as it began to sob.

He recognised it.

Arthur?

“What?” Confusion overrode his fear of the unknown figure. “Arthur?” he demanded, slowly backing away. “Is that you?”

The figure looked up at him slowly, and Merlin noticed just how...small it seemed to be. Not the size of the beasts outside, and certainly not large enough to be any sort of proper warrior. 

“Grandfather, it’s me,” the figure stammered out. “Arthur!” 

Merlin was aghast, but immediately ran towards the boy. “What happened?” he demanded. “Arthur, _what did you do?”_

“The figure…” the boy explained with a trembling voice, groaning in agony as he spoke. “In the white room. It asked if I- if-.” Arthur blubbered, voice fading in and out. “Yes- I said...yes.”

Merlin felt as though a small part of his soul withered and died when he heard that. 

“What figure? What white room? Arthur, what is that armor?” he asked, attempting to take the gloves off of the child’s hands. 

This caused Arthur to scream. “Stop! It hurts, stop!” the child yelled. “Everything. It-it hurts!”

“We hurt. All of- All of us.” He heaved, before confusion entered the young boy’s voice. “It and I?” Arthur shook, trembling and shaking. “You and I?” In his full armor, he looked up at Merlin.

With that last, distressingly mystifying question, Arthur fell over, unconscious. Merlin, determined to at least bring Arthur somewhere outside of this blasted forest, put all the strength his aging body could muster into dragging the limp body, no heavier, despite the armor, back towards the village.

 _Oh, my boy,_ Merlin thought mournfully. _What am I to do with you?_

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

  
It was always the shouting with these grumpy, overripe, _fruit brained_ ancient cadavers of men. Never pleasant discussion, no, it had to be shouting, panic and a mixture of clever schemes and plain idiocy. It seemed that time had not taught these tragic examples of age patience, no, how dare he assume one would learn patience with age?

  
So it was that Merlin hesitated to step inside the great wooden shack, his hesitation turning to dread after a particularly loud scream. He glared at the wooden door and felt his calm erode with every half-heard yell.

“The spirits save me from these men,” Merlin grumbled beneath his breath, laying his hand on the door to brave the misery of the old coots.

A loud, hacking laugh stopped him. “The spirits won’t save you from a damn thing, Merlin. Not with that attitude.” 

He turned, his vision graced by the hunched over, grey-haired and dull-eyed face of Viviane. Her condescending smile seemingly tailor-made to annoy him. Gently holding her by the arm was her grandson, her only surviving relative, and the only person who could possibly withstand the damned witch.

“They will,” he shot back. “Once they shamble you off this mortal coil.”

“Bah,” she spoke. “As if I’d die before you do.”

They stood still, both standing before the door. 

“I’m willing to go after you.” Merlin offered.

Even blind, Viviane’s glare could not be mistaken. “Not if that overblown warlock Uther and his crowd sings and worships offered.”

Pause. Silence.

“Together?” Merlin asked, pained to speak the words. 

“Fine.” She agreed grudgingly, with a dismissive glance, she shook her grandson off. “Off with you Lance, go find something to do. Like that girl of yours.”

The boy nodded, silently moving away. 

Viviane offered Merlin her arm, he accepted. Taking it into the crook of his elbow. Side by side, they walked in. The door snapped open as Merlin poured all the confidence he had into the motion.

“ **Enough!** ” 

Just in time for Uther to silence the gathering. The man’s eyes smoldered, hiding how tired he truly was. Merlin had no doubt the man hadn’t slept. Merlin certainly hadn’t, not with that question made of metal that towered outside of their home.

“Enough,” Uther repeated, staring down men twice his age. “The king will not be sent to. That is final. King Felgrad will know nothing of this, and we will not involve ourselves with-” Uther took a deep, shaking breath. “We will not involve ourselves with the king.” He shook his head. “Not if we are wise. The matter is settled.”

Elder Caden opened his mouth. “Then what are we to do with that metal thing?” The chair croaked as Caden put his weight forward on it, leaning closer to the oversized round table of the shack. “Leave it there? We don’t have men to pull it down, we don’t know what it is, it did something to your boy, beast-men of two forms surround it, and it fell from the heavens!”

A murmur of assent passed. 

“What else do we do but call the king and hope things end well?” Caden continued, looking to and fro. “I’ve spoken, Uther, and I’ve spoken well and true. Only the king has the men to deal with this.”

Jormund the blacksmith stood up from his chair, passing a shared glance between him and Uther before he threw a piece of metal, glimmering blue-gold on the table. “We crack it, like an egg.”

Merlin found a chair next to elder Dylan. “What did I miss?” he whispered.

Dylan snorted. “Uther and Caden having the usual spat. Caden wanted to call King Felgrad, Uther reminded everyone what happened to the Goldmour’s third cousin.”

Ah. That would do it.

Jormund took out his hammer and a nail. He placed the nail on the top of the metal piece, and hammered it. It fragmented, splitting into four pieces. 

“Heat has made the metal weak,” Jormund said, his deep guttural voice almost lashing out in the large hall. “Its fall, and it could only be the fall, has weakened it. We can bring it down.” Stars glinted in the blacksmith’s eyes. “I can reforge it, as strong as it must have been before it fell. Heavenly metal, made anew.”

“And the beast-men.” Elder Caden grunted. “They are...unnatural. Unholy. They must be removed from their metal armor and strange weapons. Their flesh must be burned.”

“They will be.” Uther assented. “After we send one to a monastery. I will not be the one responsible for letting abominations die and be forgotten. One of each will be sent, I’ve a friend who will know how to handle it.”

Merlin chose that moment to enter the dialogue. “Then only one matter remains. Your boy, Uther, what of him?”

“He’ll come with me,” Viviane spoke up. “Lancelot needs the company, and the boy is in no… state to be kept here. Not until I and Merlin find what’s wrong with him.”

Caden tone softened. “Is he...fine?”

“He’ll live,” Uther answered gruffly. “Arthur will go with you, then. Will you need anything to take care of him?” 

The old woman scoffed. “I’ve Lancelot with me. The boy is an idiot, but he serves well enough. We’ll be fine.”

Elder Dylan stood up, his back popping as he rose. “I’ll gather the boys, get started on the dead. I’ll assume punishing Jonus and his fools with that will be acceptable?” He waited a breath, no disagreement came. Dylan patted Merlin’s shoulder as he left.

Caden followed suit, leaving with a wilted ‘farewell.’

“I will see what I can do to break apart the towering metal.” Jormund murmured, “It will take time. It will be difficult, with the size of that thing.”

“Go, then.” Uther bade him. “As fast as you can, there have been rumours of the king’s men around. I do not want them to pay us any attention.”

“I will do what I am able to,” Jormund promised. “I’ve...ideas.” With an inclined nod, he left the shack.

Uther sat down in his chair, sagging into it. “How is he?”

“Better,” Merlin stated. “Far better. He’s confused but coherent. He’s having trouble recalling what happened. Something about a warrior, heaven, and a deal.”

“Have you seen how he breathes?” Uther asked, shivering. “How he moves? This deal is an ill sign, a grave one.”

Viviane’s laughter was condescending. “He’s made no deal with your devil, Uther. For one, he’s too kind-hearted, for another, I doubt the devil is one of these things.”

“They are two-horned.”

“Your devil was a fallen angel, idiot.” Viviane hissed. “These things have waged war, these things have been killing beastial things. Use your damn head, ignorant boy.”

Uther hand rose to his temple, rubbing it. “This is too much, too soon. Mordred’s jaw, Arthur, Felgrad’s men, that towering metal. Too much.”

“It’s an omen.” Viviane rolled her eyes. “You, of all, should recognise it.” She motioned for Merlin. “And King Felgrad’s always…” She shook in fear. “He’s always been what he is. No need to fret over it.”

Merlin laughed, a hollow, terrified laugh. “That he was. Nothing has changed. We will do our best, and our peace will return.” 

He hoisted Viviane. “We’ll go ahead. I’ve left ointment for Mordred’s jaw, he’ll get better. Everything will get better.” 

“Merlin,” Uther called out.

He glanced back. 

“You know what to do, if it comes to it.”

His arm tightened around Viviane. “It won’t.” He answered, leaving the shack and its round table.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\------------------------------- 

The lake had a tranquil, serene nature to it. It stretched and unfolded, blue and splendorous. A breeze came, and Arthur’s lips broke to a smile. He raised his hands, basking in the moment, in the feeling of air across his skin, of sunlight and the smell of grass and trees.

The breeze kicked off a small wave, almost as if a gentle hand caressed the water. He took a long, drawn out, clear breath. No wheeze, no cough, just a painless breath. He exhaled, feeling titanic, feeling himself.

He wasn’t whole, something at the back of his mind reminded him of that. But he was more, more than he ever had been.

“Arthur.” A quiet, confident voice came from behind him.

“Hey.” He responded, softly. Turning to face the speaker. “How’s your grandmother?”

Lancelot stood at the bottom of the rock Arthur was on, his woolen shirt highlighting the bundled muscles of his figure. The breeze made his golden, curling hair flutter, and his sharp, blue eyes were bright and captivating.

He could see why Lancelot was considered alluring.

Lancelot didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, he clambered up the rock Arthur was perched on. With a grunt, Lancelot reached the top.

“Nice view,” Lancelot spoke, brushing his curly golden hair back, his azure eyes sweeping the lake. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Arthur smiled. “It’s almost like nothing else matters, the world at quiet peace.”

“Rock?” He asked, as he pointed as the carved divots in the stone. Carved with something resembling a clawed hand. They made the large rock climbable, without them, no one would have been able to clamber atop of the rock.

“The armor,” Arthur explained. “It helped me climb.”

And nearly turned that rock to dust, Arthur didn’t say. 

“You still didn’t answer the question.” Arthur reminded, closing and opening his fist. Feeling the power coil and relax with his motions. 

“She says,” Lancelot cleared his throat, imitating Grandmother Viviane’s voice. “ _A bunch of useless lousy louts better fed to the wolves.”_

Arthur chuckled. “So she’s happy today.”

Lancelot shrugged, his piercing gaze still locked on Arthur.

“It scares me,” Arthur admitted. “The armor...the dreams, the nightmares. The deal I made. It’s...the armor haunts me, Lancelot...” He paused, his vision picking the subtle, imperceptible motion of animals, of little squirrels, fish, and birds.

“You took it off,” Lancelot stated as if it made everything better.

 _Or it let me out._ Arthur shivered. 

“The voice?” Lancelot asked.

He closed his eyes, the world washing away. Silenced. Arthur retreated into his own mind and calm. For a breath, two. He waited. There were no words of a tongue he did not know, of knowledge at the boundary of his comprehension.

But he knew, he knew beyond doubt.

It was there, and it was watching him.

“Grandmother wants you to wear it,” Lancelot spoke, with a hint of hesitation. 

“Grandpa Merlin?” Arthur questioned, feeling he knew the answer.

“Throw it into the ocean,” Lancelot answered.

An urge rose in him, he almost stood up. Almost raged at the insult on our- Arthur blinked, exhaling a shuddering, ragged breath. 

“No,” Arthur bit out. “No. I don’t want it thrown into the ocean.”

 _Left there, to sink and sink to the forgotten depths._ Arthur thought, _unremembered, unmourned, uncared for. To slowly rust and decay, until it was a shell of what it was._

Too cruel, far too cruel to do. 

“Mhm.” Lancelot hummed. “You can’t fix scary things by running away.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur started, then paused. “I like it better when you stay quiet.”

“Mhm.” the boy said. “You know I’m right.”

“Lancelot.” 

“Yes?”

“I hate you.” Arthur said dryly

“Of course you do.”

“I hate you so much.”

“I’m sure.” He remarked, amused.

Arthur sighed, standing up, stretching, feeling every joint pop and crackle. His entire body was prepared. Beside him, Lancelot did much the same. Arthur hopped, jumping the entire length of the rock, landing on both feet, his impact rustling leaves and dirt.

Lancelot snorted, climbing down the rock using the divots.

It didn’t take long to reach Viviane’s house. It was grand, as grand as any house could be in their village. Wide and walled. Tall, stout, and well cared for. They found Viviane and Merlin sitting outside, alongside each other, drinking beer and enjoying the weather.

“Bah! Here come the rats,” Viviane spat. “Can’t even spend my dying days with a quality company. Lance!” she yelled. “Come and help me, I’d like a walk around the miserable place.”

Lancelot shared a look with Arthur before he helped Viviane stand up, taking her by the arm and sofly leading her away from the house.

Merlin shook his head. “I have no idea how that boy deals with her.” He downed the rest of the beer. “Go on. I can see it in your face.”

He steeled himself, let himself gather his courage.

 _I need to put it on._ He opened his mouth to say.

“I want to put it on.” Came out instead.

A beat passed. 

No condemnation came. No piercing questions, no second guessing or otherwise. Merlin nodded, slowly. Grimly. 

Merlin stood up, gathering his staff and gesturing at Arthur to follow. “Lancelot?” Merlin queried.

“Yes.” Arthur admitted. “He...has a point.”

They passed thick bushes, sprawling grass mixed with the drooping branches of trees.

“Lancelot is a warrior,” Merlin started. “He’s the mirror image of his father, he reminds Viviane of her son every time she’s around him. Much the same as you are the image of your ancestors.”

“I know.” Arthur said. “I know.”

“And as someone who’s a father to your father, I need to tell you this.” Merlin pushed aside a thicket. “You don’t have to do a _damn_ thing. This armor, you can just leave it. Listen to your father, maybe. A monastery, learning letters and scholarship will do you good.”

“I-” he hesitated.

“Yes, yes. It’s your dream.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Is this the dream you _expected?”_

“No.”

“Then it might do you some good,” Merlin said, poking Arthur’s head with his stick. “To sit, rethink _your dreams_ and see what you well and truly _want_.” 

“I…” Arthur started. He tried, again, and again, to think of what he wanted. Did he want a sword in hand and a shield in the other?

More blood and butchery?

“I’m not sure...I don’t know what I want.” Arthur admitted. 

“Good,” Merlin replied. “Because here’s the choice you want to make. Right here and now, boy. But know this, you can always trust me.” 

With his stick, Merlin pointed at the armor. Rays of light lit the metal, shining across its ravaged outside. It sat regally, locked in place atop its stone, at the center of a cleared out part of this grove. Its etchings and artistry, scars and damages, they made it seem greater. Venerable.

It was different than he remembered. Less damaged, thinner and smaller, its size had changed to fit him perfectly.

Arthur’s breath came short, his skin broke out in sweat. He felt a chill, cold, too cold, run across his skin.

“Chose, Arthur.” Merlin said softly. “No choice is still a choice, dear boy.”

He moved closer.

His heart was pounding in his ears. He could feel his throat tighten, almost choking him. 

He pushed. One step. Another.

His hand leapt to his chest, gripping it. It hurt, he was dizzy, he couldn’t breathe, the trees were closing in. 

The armor’s head turned towards him. Bright lights, four of them, like two pairs of eyes, two on each side, glared at him. 

He stepped back.

Someone started calling after him.

He ran away, away from it. Away from the armor, from the eyes, from everything. He didn’t stop until everything made sense again.

“Hah.” he gasped. “Ghah,” he choked for breath, grasping at his chest, his fingers digging into his shirt. 

His breath calmed and Arthur’s body untensed. His coiled muscles loosened. Arthur stumbled towards a tree, resting his back against its strange red bark, trying in vain to convince himself that he didn’t run away.

That he could always come back.

He calmed. He shut his eyes, shutting the world out. Focusing on his breathing, on staying calm and tranquil.

This was fine, he tried to convince himself.

This was normal, natural. No need to push himself and make things difficult. No choice is just as good a choice. Let it go, relax. Pain was not needed, all he needed was to be calm and-

**“And be a coward.”**

The voice came. From left, from right. It resounded from everywhere. 

Arthur shot up, springing to his feet. Where? He whipped his head around. Where!?

**“Right here.”**

A dark figure, a shade, split itself from the shadows. It was two-horned, hoofed. Large and looming. Its eyes were red flames, its horns grey and reflective. It was, he realised, the warrior who had given him the armor.

The warrior’s hoofs stamped into the ground. Armor grew around him, forming from darkness, black as the shadows around it.

Arthur’s heart leapt into his chest. “You’re...you’re dead.”

Without replying, the warrior simply moved from the shadows into the rays of light, his black form unaffected by the sun. It began to move forward, advancing on him. Irreverent of the impossibility of his existence.

All the same, the specter strode towards him.

Arthur reeled back, nearly falling on his backside, his legs shaking, his whole body trembling. He could not comprehend what his eyes told him.

 ** _“Your fear, your dread,”_ **the warrior marched forward, extending a hand outward, palm open. **_“Right here, right in front of you.”_**

A sword flew out of the air, slamming into the warrior’s open palm. **_“Run, then,”_** the warrior said, weighing his blade, _**“Run again, and keep running. Run, run until you reach the cliff.”**_

The warrior swung his sword, steel glinted, a brief flash.

Arthur’s brow rose, What was-

A tree fell, bisected.

-That...

Arthur ran, his feet crushing branches. His heart pounding, thumbing, as he pushed every ounce of himself into escaping. 

**_“Where will you run then?”_** The warrior asked, stepping from behind a tree in Arthur’s path. In one, smooth motion, the warrior caught Arthur by the neck, raised him, and threw him into a tree.

_Crack._

Pain, white-hot, blinding pain. Arthur couldn’t breathe, he choked. Hands grasping at everything in his breathlessness. Arthur gasped as his breath returned to him. He spotted a burrow, beneath the tree.

He didn’t think. He leapt for it as a singular goal manifested: hide. He needed to hide. He crawled like a worm to get into it, faster and harder, arms and legs kicking against the ground.

 ** _“Where will you hide?”_** The warrior mocked, his foot ramming into Arthur’s guts, sending him flying into the branches of a tree. The branches cracked, splinters burying themselves into Arthur’s back. Blood dripped, stinging pain pulsing from wood splinters.

Arthur fell back to the ground, his breath knocked out of him. His heart rang, his forehead was covered in sweat. Pain thudded numbly across his body. 

**_“A slave to your fears, shying from terror,”_** The warrior sneered. **_“Hiding away from dread. Convincing yourself of a lie.”_**

Run? Hide? No...neither worked. How? Arthur’s mind ran, clouded by pain and panic. There’s nothing. He realized. There’s nothing to hide behind...nowhere to run.

 ** _“Keep lying to yourself,”_** The warrior stated, raising his sword. **_“Repeat it to yourself until you believe it.”_**

Arthur’s fist rose.

**_“This profane curse you tell yourself.”_ **

Pieces of wood rose around him, gripped by his will.

**_“That you are weak, that you cannot face your demons, that leisure and comfort will aid you.”_ **

Amethyst flame, purple and roaring, cloaked his arm.

The warrior’s helmet disappeared, the shadows that made it blown away by a breeze, revealing the soft smile of the warrior. 

**_“You cannot hide from the blackest night. You cannot run from it. All you can do-”_** the warrior motioned to swing his sword down, to behead Arthur.

Arthur roared, he let his fear become power. He let the pain focus him, he let everything he felt fuel his will. From the tips of Arthur’s fingers lept a storm of force and flame. For, in that instance, Arthur raged.

**_“The only thing you can do...the one thing you must do.”_ **

The warrior’s form was disintegrated, invisible hands pulling him apart piece by piece. Purple flame eating apart his form, devouring it whole.

The warrior’s eyes burned, hot red, hotter than the sun. **_“Is raise your sword and fight!”_**

The world shifted. The shadows, the trees. For a moment they blurred. Then they came back into focus.

Arthur's eyes opened wide, he looked around him. He was a few steps away from the red tree, half of which was gone, torn apart, pulled into ribbons and burned to ash.

 ** _“Fear is your blade,”_** the voice whispered, and, in the shadow of the red tree, Arthur saw a specter, shadowed and dark, his eyes bright red, his form breaking apart, like embers in the wind. 

_**“Wield it with courage.”** _

Arthur felt his blood run cold.

_**“Or it will destroy you.”** _

The specter scattered.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

  
The suit stood in the clearing, sunlight bearing on it. Its white enamel was scarred, its form pittered with wounds. They were closing, Merlin could see, slowly but surely, the scars were being healed.

“Jormund, my question?”

Merlin had spent enough time around Uther’s ‘flock’ to recognise religious ecstasy. Jormund’s hands brushed against the metal. “It is sacrilege to touch this, blasphemy to dare give opinions, much less answer your question. I dare not. I could not.”

“It is not eastern, then.” Merlin guessed. 

“My master travelled the world.” Jormund whispered in awe. “East, west. He’s learnt their metal work, mastered it, and he taught it all to me. This? Merlin, this is beyond anything I have ever seen.”

“Is it...made by men?” He questioned.

Jormund paused, thinking. “Merlin. It fell from heaven. You should only ask how it was made.”

“How was it made?” 

Jormund’s frown was unamused. “Merlin.”

“You said to ask how it was made,” Merlin shrugged innocently, though his eyes gleamed mischievously. “I asked. Now answer.”

With a long hum, Jormund moved around the armor like a predator stalking his prey, focusing his senses on it in totality.

“The metalwork is too precise, it was not forged in pieces. It’s too tough to have been welded, too ornate in decoration, too masterful.” He laid his hands on a joint, and Merlin saw Jormund tear up. “I can see such skill, Merlin. It speaks to me, to my hammer. What divine craft.”

Jormund was transfixed in thought, seeing ideas and methods he never knew possible.

Merlin rapped his staff on a nearby tree, snapping the man out of his reverie. “My question Jormund, answer my question.”

“Merlin.” Jormund said, tone thick with annoyance. “I am not a warlock or a witch. I could not tell you if this armor was possessed or arcane.”

“No.” Merlin agreed. “But if you had to make a bet, based upon your skills?”

“Yes.” The blacksmith replied. “Anything that could make such metal can enchant it beyond the wildest dreams of petty warlocks. The power it gives the boy.” He laid a palm on the faceless helmet. “You should pray it is divine, as Uther and Viviane think. Else it bodes ill for the boy.”

“I’m not concerned about the particulars.” Merlin replied. “A spirit is a spirit, the name does not matter. What concerns me is what you said, this power is enough to make black mages cry foul.”

Jormund glanced at Merlin. “Old man, there is such a thing as demons. Demons who make deals, who trade souls for power, who hide and live in deceit. Demons who-”

“Oh please, what would the odds…be….” Merlin paused, seeing the armor out of the corner of his eyes. Had the head moved? Were his eyes tricking him? The light playing games? Paranoia?

Or...

“Yes. That might be an issue.”

“Do you have a plan?” Jormund asked.

“Ask Uther for holy water and that cross of his." Merlin said absentmindedly. "I’ll figure out some sanctification ritual or another.”

Jormund grunted. “If it does not work?”

Merlin chuckled. “Then we’ll deal with the demon-possessed armor. What options would be left?”

“Many.” Jormund said. “Give the boy mercy. Throw it into my possession. Let the matter fade, and run. Felgrad’s men have been running around, as of late. If they found it- in the hands of a boy no less...” he shuddered.

“Only Uther’s God could save him from the fate Felgrad would subject him to.”

“And waste the chance to have another champion in his grasp?” Merlin scoffed. “No. Felgrad would be a fool to not recruit him. Manipulate him into becoming Pendragon Reborn, his living nightmare to unleash on his enemies.”

“Except possessed by divine steel,” Jormund’s voice grew haunted. “Made powerful by arcane weapons.”

“Jormund,” Merlin said, lips curled in an amused smile. “Your endless optimism has always been a joy to behold.”

“Not all men are as eager to die as you are,” Jormund said quietly. “Some of us merely wish to live long, live gratefully long lives with our families, untouched by war. What you suggest by keeping that armor would ignite a war that would destroy the peace we have.” He turned around. “Is it too much to ask for peace Merlin? Is it really too much to let your past fade, and live happily in contentment here?”

Merlin gave Jormund a long look, his expression guarded and his eyes inscrutable, before he answered. “If you had seen the things that I have, Jormund, you would know that true peace is a lie while Felgrad and his ilk occupy the throne.”

“Pendragon wouldn’t have wanted this obsession.” Jormund replied, his voice cooling as he spoke. “He left everything behind to avoid it. Yet you’d drag everyone back into it, if you could?”

Long, gnarly fingers slicked back long white hair. A single strand left to gleam in the light, hanging freely. He leaned on his staff, haunted eyes sharpened into knives as he speared Jormund with his gaze.

“Pendragon did what he did to stop a civil war.” Merlin’s voice was nearly a whisper. “ _I was there._ I know what he was asked to do by the nobles. Instead of becoming a king, he became a nightmare, a butcher of all that stood in his way, in _Felgrad’s_ way." 

There was a pause. “He regretted that until the day he died, Jormund. It’s why he came here and settled down.” His eyes took on vengeful animus. “Now look at us. Hiding like rats. Fleeing in poverty as Felgrad grows fat. His reign feared everywhere on the Isle. His power unquestioned. No one to challenge him or reign him in.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of-” Jormund halted, his incredulous voice soft. “You _couldn’t.”_

“Only one bloodline remains. Only one name remains. Only one. Possible. Chance.” Merlin said quietly, dangerously. White hair almost gleaming silver in the light. “Fate, Uther’s God, the spirits. It doesn’t matter.” He chuckled ominously, stepping closer to Jormund and speaking softly, but the tone oozed a concealed rage. “Even the devil himself does not matter. None of them. This single opportunity is all that matters.”

“You are.” Jormund said, eyes wide. Voice tight. “The boy isn’t a pawn of yours.”

“No. He’s so much more.” Merlin smiled, a truly terrifying sight to his companion. “ _So much more._ ”

“Merlin!” Jormund hissed. “Pendragon wanted peace. He wanted happy lives for them. Free from his name, from his memory. From Felgrad.”

“Jormund,” Merlin replied, quietly. “You should know well enough by now. Men who hold power…they rarely drink their fill of it. Even when drunk on it, they thirst for more.”

Jormund searched Merlin’s eyes, recoiling when he saw them start to glow an insidious amethyst. “Merlin,” he said slowly. “Your eyes...”

“You would do well to remember, Jormund, son of Darmine, why _I_ alone was feared and revered by Felgrad’s court.” His voice seemed to come from everywhere, echoing in his head. Clawing at his mind. “When Felgrad comes, it will spark a war. I’ll make sure that, _this_ time, he won’t survive. _This_ time, he’ll rouse the last dragon he should have awakened.”

“You’ll damn us all,” Jormund's voice was a hoarse whisper. “In your hunger for power, you’ll ruin it all.”

“Felgrad _will_ fall. One way or another.” Merlin said, his eyes now wreathed in a blaze of amethyst. “Nothing else matters.”

Jormund stood solemnly, gazing at the armor as if it were a cursed thing from the pits of hell. “Men like you should have never been born. You, Pendragon, Felgrad. All of you should have never been conceived. Monsters shouldn’t live among men.”

Merlin glanced back at him, his eyes still glowing. “And yet we do. Beware the wrath of dragons and their allies, Jormund,” he turned around and started walking away. “All it takes is one single accident. It would be a pity if that boy of yours were injured in such an accident.” 

Jormund looked at the retreating form of Merlin, fear coursing through him at the thought of his son being injured, then gazed at the armor. Its gleaming, enamel-white plate, ornate decorations glittering silver. In the illumination of the clearing, it seemed divine and hallowed.

“Cursed,” Jormund said disdainfully. “You are cursed and profane.”

He spat next to the armor and walked away, back to the village. He had orders to complete, and little time to do them.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

  
The clatter of the hooves was soft on the dirt and grass, the gentle breeze of cold wind caressing him. Behind him marched two dozen horsemen, a scatter of swords between them, with a spear and a shield each. Their column a smattering of colors and horses.

Soft reflected light came between the leaves of grass, a gathering of trees hindering their path.

From afar, another horseman came riding in, a smile on his lips, dark brown hair and emerald eyes framing his pudgy, angular features. Pryce Goodcomb, a proud ram on the orange banner of his house identifying him as easily as his face.

“Felgrad,” Pryce called out, his horse stamping its feet to a stop. “We’ve almost arrived. This is the last village in the area.” 

Reece Felgrad turned his focus to Pryce. “How many does that make?” He wondered aloud.

“What difference does it make?” Came the answer. Talfryn Armway grumbled. “All we do is go from hut, to mud, to another hut, to more mu-”

“Talfryn.” Reece stated. “You tread dangerously.”

Talfryn clicked his tongue. “I’m merely-” he paused, measuring his words. “-expressing my displeasure-”

“Talfryn.” Reece reiterated. “Speak wisely or do not speak at all.”

Mouth still open, Talfryn’s face scrunched in humiliation, annoyance flashing and turning to disdain, as it usually did. Thin skinned and thinner of wit, Talfryn was, to express in words, a displeasure. 

“Go ahead of us.” Pryce commanded, “meet the village elders and express my intent.”

Talfryn took a second too long to incline his head, a second long enough to show his defiance. “As you command.” Talfryn hissed, through clenched teeth. 

Hooves crashed on dirt as Talfryn’s horse went into a gallop. 

“You’d think he’d learn respect after the first ten times.” Pryce whistled. “Evidently not.”

Reece petted the neck of his horse. “The Armway temperament does him no good.” 

Brow raised, Pryce did what Pryce was wont to do. “He’s positively charming compared to his liege. I’ve met that creature once, Talfryn is nothing compared to the ice we all walk on around the Armway patriarch.”

“I would presume you’d know.” Reece checked his quiver, glancing back at his spear and sword. “You certainly seem to know everything that matters.”

 _Including,_ Reece resisted the urge to shut his eyes, _how to make a man sleep deprived._

“Of course I do.” Pryce gestured at the menagerie of banners behind them. “I remind you who belongs to which land and which house and which barrel of issues.”

When you don’t snore like a dying goat, Reece struggled to contain the comment. It was unbecoming of a leader to snark. No matter how satisfying it would be.

The scattering of trees began to thin. Thin stacks of smoke, black and billowing, rose over the horizon. 

“If we find him here.” Pryce started. “What do we do with the rest?”

 _What indeed,_ Reece wondered. “Has Ergo Andergor apologized for the 'tragic accident' that befell your sister, as of late?"

"No." Pryce deliberated, rolling the words. "He hasn't."

"Crimes against one's liege, such as abetting the existence of a traitor." Reece started. "Deserve punishment of equal weight."

His fellow rider chuckled, a humorless and hungry chuckle. "That they do."

"Redneghast," Reece called out.

Behind him, he _felt_ more than _heard_ Redneghast the Colossal move. "You needed me," mumbled the large, muscular brute. 

Reece took no offense at the lack of respect. Redneghast was seldom a creature of wit, intelligence, or decorum. This, as far as Reece concerned himself, was the most amount of respect he could squeeze out of the brute.

 _Garner respect by holding yourself higher, never lower yourself with pettiness._ Petty men died on petty hills.

Reece was not a petty man. "Gather a few men, take your pick. This time we might find him."

"Like last time?" Redneghast more asked than stated. 

"Except better," Reece warned. "I don't want anyone running out, or getting clever."

Redneghast nodded. "I need a new hammer." There was a loud pop as he craned his neck. "Last one done broke."

 _You always need a new hammer._ Reece wanted to say, _every single time, you need a new hammer._

"Very well." 

Redneghast smiled, a mouth empty of teeth on display. 

Reece stopped his horse. Raising his fist and clenching it, the entire column came to a stop. Pryce did as was his role, his horse galloping down the column of riders. 

"This is the last village in Glywssing," Pryce yelled. "That pompous traitor's trail ends here. We either find him, or.." Pryce trailed off.

A shiver of dread ran down Reece's back. _Or we go back to the King empty-handed._

The men knew it. All of them did. The idea was as much a motivator as it was a burrowing nightmare, digging in their minds.

"Or we keep searching until we pick up another trail." Pryce continued, to grim understanding in the surrounding faces. "Dress and arm. We will either leave with full bellies, or we leave with bloody spears."

Hauberks were put on. Banners taken off of spears, wrapped around flanks of horses and around bags.

 _We will find you,_ Reece promised, eyes locked on the village. _We will find you and have our leave of Felgrad and his terror._

_And when we do._

The idea of returning home to his wife and warm bed made his hair stand on end. It made his heart soften.

_You will not last a night, traitor. You will pay for what you did to the princess._


	3. Arc 1 Chapter 2

**_Beholder of the Sword_ **

**_2_ **

_Location: Forest clearing, one hour east of Glywssing_

_Date: Tenth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

Arthur gasped as Lancelot came at him with his sword, barely managing to block the attack with his own. 

“Shield,” Lancelot muttered. “Sword up.” He dodged Arthur’s clumsy slash with practiced ease. “Head high,” he said, twisting his torso and ramming the pommel of his sword into the boy’s unprotected jaw.

Arthur felt it ring across his skull and flopped to the ground, nerveless. 

Merlin scratched his beard. “Lancelot, perhaps you should go easier on Arthur?” 

Arthur groaned.

“Why?” Lancelot asked, twirling his sword and bouncing on the balls of his feet, blonde hair shining golden in the sun. 

Mordred chuckled, his jaw wrapped in cloth. “Because you’re too good at this.” 

Merlin sighed at Mordred’s bluntness, but added. “You also have significant experience with a sword, compared to Arthur’s near none.”

“True enough, Mordred,” he said, leaning down to pull Arthur up. Arthur tried to pull him down, but Lancelot simply slapped him with the side of his blade, kicked him, _and_ pulled him up, somehow. 

Arthur wheezed, wobbling on his feet. “Why?” he asked accusingly.

“You attacked. I responded,” came the dry reply.

He looked at Merlin’s unusually intense focus, nervously clutching the practice sword in his hand. The exercise was good, the movement let him ease up, but swords? He wasn’t sure about that. Then again, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

“Ready?” Merlin asked.

“Yes.” He breathed out, holding the sword up, mimicking Lancelot’s stance. Lancelot nodded, and the two slowly circled around each other.

Arthur froze.

Red eyes and a spectral form watched him from the woods. Horns protruded from the shadows, keen interest in the ruby glare of the warrior’s eyes.

 ** _‘Focus,’_ ** it said sternly. **_‘Listen to the way the wind whispers across the edge of the blade. Do you hear it?’_ **

Arthur swallowed, but returned his attention to the match. He tuned out all other distractions as best he could, listening to the slight breeze circling through the clearing. The twist of leather as Lancelot prepared to strike. Arthur tensed and prepared to block.

Lancelot swung.

**_‘Do you hear it?’_ **

_I do._

Arthur managed to parry, if barely. The blades slid across each other, screeching in protest. Caught unprepared, Lancelot’s blade went towards the ground. Arthur quickly reacted, swinging at the exposed portion of Lance’s torso. The sound of his sword bouncing across leather armor with a dull thud heralded the end of that round. 

Silence echoed in the clearing, the shock of what he had just done ringing in his mind. 

**_‘Again.’_ **

Lancelot charged, sword swinging left. He repeated his strike, the keen whistle of wind his guide. He followed it, and struck upwards with swiftness. Lancelot’s blow slid across his blade.

**_‘Again.’_ **

Lancelot side-stepped a strike, punching Arthur in the face. He moved with the blow, feeling his mind race. His ears listening closely, to the duel, to the air, to everything. Every whistle of the swords moving, the patter of Lancelot’s footwork. He could hear it all.

**_‘Until it becomes thoughtless.’_ **

Lancelot paused, heaving and covered in sweat. “Good.” He smiled.

Mordred whooped. 

He heaved, feeling his muscles burn. He planted the edge of the sword into the dirt and leaned on it. His sight darkened. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

**_{AMALGAM-IMPERATIVE?1|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|STAGE?1|RECONCILIATION}_ **

He gritted his teeth, his whole body trembling and shaking. Arthur looked up. The spectre was leaning down, face almost touching his. He fell to his knees.

**_‘Stand.’_ **

The drilling feeling in his head returned. Arthur dropped his sword and clutched his head, his nails digging into his scalp. His lips parted in a silent scream. 

_-Cities burn-_

_-Weapons rattle-_

_-We march, across an ocean of bloodied water-_

The Spectre’s eyes burned a red blaze. **_‘Stand up. Pick up the blade.’_ **

Pain hardened, nails hammering into his bones. _Make it stop._ Like worms drilling into his marrow. _Make it stop!_ His vision turned red. He smelled iron, he heard something crack. _Make it stop!_

 _Enough!_ Arthur begged. _Enough..stop..._

**_‘In the depths of the mind, there must be a fortress.’_ **

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice. Tinged with concern.

_'_ **_Focus. Focus on our words.’_ **

His lips moved of their own accord. _“Its rooms must be many. Its throne singular.”_

Arthur growled, feeling teeth crack and his jaw beg for release, grasping the hilt of his fallen sword. He forced himself up on shaking legs. He felt his eyes burning. 

“Grandpa.” Lancelot licked his dry lips. “His eyes, they’re bleeding.”

“His eyes? His eyes!?” Mordred shouted hysterically. “How about his mouth and skin and ears!” 

“Arthur!” Merlin shouted. “Arthur, what’s wrong?!”

**_‘In the depths of the mind there must be an army.’_ **

Arthur looked up and saw his enemy. He felt a tug in his mind, and saw sticks, branches, and rocks start lifting off the ground. They tumbled, wavering up and down. Dust swirled around the clearing, clouding around, and rocks were ground to debris.

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?6%|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|FAULT- CEASED}_ **

“Their banner ma-n…Their banner?” Arthur’s eyes lost focus, and he shivered. 

**_‘Focus. Focus on the words. Let them guide you. Focus on them. Let them ease you. Focus on them. Let them give you solace.’_ **

Arthur’s face contorted, exerting force to control his agonized expression. The amethyst flames around his eyes brightened and lengthened. The wood hovering around him became splinters.

“Their banners, many,” he growled out, falling into an unfamiliar stance. “Their name, one.”

Then his body _moved_ , feet crashing against the ground. His body felt dull, unfamiliar. Senses intoxicated. Everyone looked like a puppet figure, undefined, unclear. He attacked. 

“Lance!” Merlin yelled. “Mordred!”

“I’m fine!” Lancelot yelled, moving with grace. Deflecting the blow and striking out himself.

**_“In the depths of the mind there must be hunger.”_ **

“Hunger,” Arthur muttered, blade moving, hands and feet one. 

**_‘Focus. Focus on the words.’_ **

“Its gnawing teeth, furious,” Arthur spoke, his vision fogging up. It was drowned by red. He could taste iron. “Its appetite, endless.”

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?8%|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|RECTIFIED- RESUMED}_ **

Lancelot’s attack was batted away with near-contemptuous ease by Arthur. The young dragon immediately lashed out with his foot, impacting Lancelot’s chest. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him and sent him back a few feet.

Mordred leapt into action. “Dammit!” He ran and tackled Arthur to the ground. Lancelot groaned, rolling himself up and jumping atop Arthur. The two of them struggled against the deranged boy.

Arthur managed to get his feet above his chest and extended them, launching Mordred off of him. His attention turned to his next foe, who was knocked back by Mordred’s flight. He sat up, grabbing his fallen blade and rolling to his feet. 

Lancelot moved in response, rolling to his own sword, not expecting Arthur to dash towards him. Arthur reversed his grip. His body falling with gravity, he plunged it _down._ Lancelot blocked it by the skin of his teeth.

“Arthur?” he whispered, terror warring with awe as he desperately defended. 

“Enough!” Merlin yelled, his own eyes glowing purple as a barrier appeared between the two, forcefully separating them. For a moment, Merlin was surprised. Then, he exerted his power.

Barriers cordoned Arthur, boxing him in.

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?ERROR|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST| HALTED}_ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?FAILURE|AMALGAM-INTERNAL-FAULT| REPAIRING}_ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?12%|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|REPAIR? HALTED|AWAITING?INSTRUCTION}_ **

Arthur reached a shaking hand to his eyes, the amethyst flames extinguishing as if they were a candle flame being blown out. He touched something wet and warm. He smelled iron.

No, not iron. Blood. He could barely see anything. He couldn’t breathe. HIs vision darkened to black. 

“Grandpa?” he called out, hoarsely, shuddering. “What’s...happening to me?”

Merlin’s voice came through as if from a heavy fog, but he could not make sense of the noises he heard. 

Only the specter could be heard. **_‘The Fate mandated by your choice.’_ **

It loomed over him with its red eyes and black leathery skin, grey horns glimmering in the sunlight. 

As Merlin raced over to him, his footsteps like thunder in his ears. Arthur felt his heart cease, and the world went black.

\--------------------------------

Viviane had heard it all. “Merlin, you have a problem.”

Merlin glared. “I could not possibly have figured that out myself, Viviane. Any other useful observations?” 

“Spirits damn you, Merlin,” she hissed right back. “What do you want from me?”

“Something resembling useful input.” He breathed out, irritated. “Not this, not you and your damned guesses.”

“Ask Uther what his God’s warriors do to towns,” she snapped. “You think they give hugs? Sweets? Fruits and love? The spar was your idea, fool.”

“Based on your assumption, one that has ended wonderfully.” he shot back, running his hand across his face. “Any other great assumptions? Any?”

Her silence made him scoff. “Lancelot.” He turned around sharply. “Pick up Arthur.”

The shocked boy obeyed without a word, grunting as he picked up the young Pendragon.

 _'At least he isn’t wearing the armor this time,’_ Merlin thought. He watched as the boy walked him over to the wall of the house and set him down there.

“Oh, I do have one idea,” Viviane finally said, leaning against him. “For one thing, you’re unusually enthusiastic about this.”

“The boy needs help,” Merlin said neutrally. “Do you see anyone helping him? Anyone?”

Viviane brought her blind, white eyes up to look at him. “No, I don’t. _I can’t see_.”

“Now isn’t the time for jokes, woman,“ he groaned. “There isn’t anyone else helping Arthur.”

“Oh, there certainly isn’t,” she said, tone clipped. “Certainly not here, and certainly not _you_.” 

Merlin focused on his breathing, the pace of his heart. His tone controlled. “The boy has nothing to do with our failures. Leave the past in the past, Viviane. I’ve no desire to go back to it.”

“Oh? Oh!” Viviane said. “Why, I believe you utterly, Merlin. How could I _possibly_ doubt you?” Her tone turned glacial. “How could I ever distrust the man who _killed_ my _son._ ”

Merlin exhaled sharply. “You know I regret that. Never did I think Felgrad would kill him just for being associated with me.”

Viviane turned away from him and scoffed. “Then you are even more a fool than I thought you were. Now help the boy, _truly_ help him, or I will see to it that he never sees you again.”

Her soft footsteps were like thunder in Merlin’s ears as he gazed upon the unconscious boy. He saw Mordred approach him from the side, but didn’t acknowledge him. No, he was too busy trying to think of what would be best to help the boy in front of him.

“Grandpa Merlin?” Mordred asked, hand on his jaw. “Why is everything...why is all of this happening?”

Merlin plastered a gentle smile on his face as he turned to look at him. “Arthur made a choice, Mordred. It’s foolish to expect nothing to change. Not when you make choices. Especially hard choices.” His smile dropped as he looked at Arthur again. 

He’d already made his choice. A shame Pendragon would never have approved.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

_Date: Fifteenth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

Gathering crowds parted as horses stamped their feet, the clapping patter of their steps ringing in the daylight. Reece’s fur cloak fluttered, his sword clanging against his side. Behind him, a column of spearmen followed.

Talfryn stood, having warned the village to prepare for his arrival. His men stood with spears on shoulders, and eyes peeled. “I’ve done as you ordered.”

“Good,” Reece acknowledged him. “Redneghast. My banner.” 

Redneghast unfurled the royal banner, raising it high.

He raised an arm, and Pryce blew into the horn. Loud and clear, the sound gave no question of whether he was passing through or not. 

“My name is Reece Felgrad!” he yelled, spurring his horse to move. “I have come here on orders of the king. We, warriors of his Majesty, King Felgrad, have been ordered to find a fugitive.” He pulled on the reins of the horse.

“As of this moment!” he stated, eyeing every last man, woman and child in the town square. “By the regency of His Majesty, all of you are under my authority. All you own is under my authority. Every house and latrine and cow and sheep is under. My. Authority.”

Men backed away as the horse rose up, stomping with its forelegs. Reece looked around, challenging any to look him in the eye. 

One did.

Eyes a sharp green. White-streaked black hair that was cut in a way that was usual for a priest, his beard trimmed and well cared for. The man was broad shouldered. His presence was felt as much as it was seen. Villagers surrounded him like an ocean.

He seemed familiar, in a way Reece could not put words to.

“Welcome,” the man said. “I am Uther, leader of this village. I welcome any of the king’s men that come to our home. Ask, and we will serve our rightful liege.”

 _To those that bow, give respect. To those that refuse, give misery._ Reece looked around him. “Our horses are thirsty, my men are hungry, and we’ve ridden long and hard.”

“However I can, I will help.” Uther nodded his head to a cadre of young men, who hurried to the horses and disembarking soldiery. 

Reece dismounted, cloak fluttering in the wind. “Talfryn, see that the men make no trouble. Redneghast, with me. Pryce, start searching.” 

Affirmations came, and he felt Redneghast’s lumbering steps. 

“Uther.” He turned to the man. “Your face seems familiar. Have we met?”

“No, my liege,” Uther bowed respectfully. The very picture of a leal servant. Too respectful. Too tactful. Too aware. “Never.”

He felt his gut clench. With casual posture gained from years of habit, he laid his hands on his sword. “How many live in this village?”

“Fifty or so,” Uther replied, eyes locked on Reece.

“How many of the elderly?” he continued. 

“Nine, formerly ten,” Uther said. “One of our elders has passed away.” 

The two locked gazes. Neither willing to back down. Dangerous, too dangerous for any lesser man to do. _Always take care to avoid snakes and wolves,_ Reece remembered. _Their bite is worse than their bark._

“Reece. _Reece_.” Redneghast tapped his shoulders, trying to lower his voice. “I’m hungry. Can I take meat? I want meat. Please. Reece. _Please_.” 

Uther chuckled. “It would be my pleasure. No, not merely your man here.” He waved at Redneghast. “I would feed all your men if you’d allow me.”

 _Or,_ he met the man’s green eyes. _You’d poison us all and dump us in a river to rot, running away to somewhere you’ve prepared._

The choice was his to make.

The consequences, his to bear.

“Reece. Please!” Redneghast begged. “I was good! I didn’t ask the last village! I don’t want bread! I want meat!”

The pieces fell into place. Reece’s mind raced and his hand trembled as he realized where he’d seen that face. 

_Pendragon._

Now he could see it, and he could see it with clarity. Fear came first, gripping his heart in a vice before his mind returned with a chilling calm. Uther did not want conflict, but he was ready for it.

The choices.

Their consequences. 

_Men who fight petty wars die in petty graves._ Reece rubbed the necklace in his pocket. “I accept your kind offer,” he said finally, hoping he hadn’t chosen poorly. “You seem lettered?”

Redneghast whooped with joy, running towards Pryce. All the while yelling ‘Meat! Meat!’

“I am,” Uther, son of Pendragon said. “My father taught me all he could. The world is cruel, and we must defend our loved ones from cruelty.”

A memory flashed across his eyes.

Pendragon on a field. Surrounded by the dead. Men terrified to come into his reach, broken swords and spears impaling the ground around him. His blood-soaked spear raised in a guarded stance. 

He stilled his shaking hand. “Your father was a wise man.”

“Wiser than most living men are,” Uther smiled.

“I see.” Reece breathed out, aware of the distance between him and Uther. Too aware. He refrained from shaking himself. Things were far too fragile for such an overt sign of unease. 

“And what did your father think of our kings?” he asked. “Wise men seldom leave their sons ignorant. They always leave their hopes, their dreams, their wisdom.”

Uther nodded slowly. “He taught me much. And I am glad he did.”

Too vague, too diversionary. 

“Of our history?” Reece pressed.

Uther shook his head. “No, not of history, but that men are chosen to rule, and we have no bearing on who is chosen. We merely obey, and we merely take care of our loved ones. Would you not agree, Lord Felgrad?”

“I would.” He felt his knuckles tighten around his sword. “He was a wise man, I see this now. Others do not share his wisdom, however. Others want blood and repayments for tragedies.”

“Then they must look for those elsewhere.” Uther closed his keen, piercing eyes, enjoying as a gentle wind blew around them. Reece felt a presence lift from his mind. “We have nothing to pay with here, and the blood of man is sacred. To spill it without care, that would be a cursed thing.”

Uther opened his eyes, locking them on his own. A challenge. Damn this man. He saw far too much of Reece’s own mind.

“Cursed indeed.” Reece didn’t dare take his eyes away. He couldn’t. “We’re looking for an old man. A dead man. A man who has long overplayed his hand. To spill blood over such unworthy men...That would be misfortunate.”

The air grew beezy.

“You can look, we hide nothing,” Uther replied, smiling as a flower petal wafted across them. “There is nothing here. No old men with schemes, no legends with blades. Only the fragments of history, wishing for quiet ends.”

“I see,” Reece stated, watching his men laugh as drinks were offered. “A quiet end. That would be desirable. Do you have children?”

“I do.”

“I too have children.” Reece clenched the necklace in his pocket. “A wife and two daughters of age. Soon, I will be a grandfather. Later, I will be on my deathbed, smiling as my end comes. A quiet end.”

Uther’s face softened. “My daughter will soon be wed. My son will be sent to a monastery. He will be lettered. He will become a man of knowledge. Away from harm, away from history. And when he comes back, I will be old and feeble. Surrounded by those I love. A peaceful end.”

“He will be found,” Reece said. “It was ordered of me.”

Uther nodded slowly. “You are welcome to search, for as long as you wish. However you wish. All you will find is the quiet.”

“There will not be quiet for long.” Reece breathed out.

“No,” Uther said solemnly. “But all the same, I dare hold to hold hope. ” 

“Hope.” Reece murmured, almost tasting the word. “I’ve forgotten how that feels.”

“Then would you dare hold it, dare believe in it?” Uther asked, his green eyes inviting him. 

“I will stay in your guest room,” he said, ignoring the questions of the man with the all too knowing gaze. He felt his grasp slacken on the hilt of his sword, and calmed himself with a short, sharp breath. “Redneghast will be with me. It will be a few days, at most.”

“From now until then, you are welcome.”

Reece of Felgrad looked up at the sky, watching the clouds darken. “From now until then.”

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

_Date: Fifteenth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

“Merlin!” Viviane yelled. “Stop being a fool and _listen_.”

“I refuse.” Merlin’s hand brushed his hair back, slicked it over his shoulders, sparing the strands hanging over his face. “I’ll read the map over to you again.”

“Merlin, damn you!” Viviane said. “Why must you be so needlessly stubborn? Listen to me!”

“The Goldmours in Gwynedd. The Armways in Powys, the Goodcombs in Dyfed, the Hutchings in Towy, the Stonehalls in Ystrad, the Andergors in Gylywssing, the Felgrad in Gwent, the Ouklangs in Ergyng, the Granbornes in Brychendog, the Reculars in Buelett, and Sweetcolts in Ceredigion.”

“Merlin,” Viviane said softly. “Please, listen to me. Please, for my sake.”

“Hutchings has never accepted Felgrad.” Merlin tapped his finger on the map. “Goldmour will take any chance at power he is offered. Andergor will be forced to act, Felgrad would never believe him innocent.”

“You can leave it all, Merlin,” Viviane said. “All of it, take Lancelot’s horse. He’s a good steed, loyal. He will take you as far as you need.”

“Goodcomb will act, so will Sweetcolt. Recular will be too surrounded to choose, they must be made to decide.” His eyes roamed over the map critically, almost trying to will a solution to appear before him. “Too few, too few. Too damned few.” 

“Merlin.”

“Armways have too many spears and too many arrows. The Granbornes are always ready for violence. Felgrad has his own scores of men. The Stonehalls are always loyal, and the Ouklangs are in Felgrad’s court, as always.”

“Goodcomb, Sweetcolt, Goldmour, Andergor, Hutching. Against Armways, Ouklangs, Felgrads, Granbornes, Stonehalls.” Not enough. Not against Felgrad. It couldn’t be.

One defeat, and everyone would flee the sinking ship back to Felgrad’s court. Only Hutchings would stand with them. Only they would follow with loyalty.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If he wavered now, he would never be able to reach the goal he’d always dreamed of. If he ceased now, his dream, the only purpose he still had in his old age, would vanish forever.

He was forcefully ripped from the map by the hand of Viviane, who turned him to face her. “Take the damned steed of Lancelot’s. Run far from here, if only for a fortnight. Felgrad’s men will surely be gone by then.”

“I can’t, Viviane. You know what will happen if Arthur’s abilities are discovered, not to mention the armor or the metal. And Jormund. And-”

“Merlin, stop fighting a fight that has no point.” Viviane wrapped her fingers around his. “Felgrad is at his wits end. It’s a token effort, a gambit. You can run away until his men move on, come back and enjoy the quiet days.”

“Arthur-”

“Will be with me and Lance. Uther can deal with anything thrown his way. Pendragon made sure of that. You are the only one they’re after. _You_ , Merlin. You alone. They won’t harm any of us.”

“Jormund-”

“He won’t say a word. He never could. The man only ever wished to accomplish his craft with integrity. He bears you no ill will.” Viviane’s wrinkled skin rubbed against his. She laid her head against his shoulder. “All of us, Merlin, all of us are fine with this, we’re happy as we are. Why can’t you accept it?”

Merlin snorted, scratching an itch on his side through his robes. “I threatened Jormund. If things were normal, I wouldn’t worry. Now that Felgrad’s men are here, I cannot help but worry what he will do.”

“You think anyone in the village will betray Uther?” Viviane asked. He felt the warmth of her body, distracting him. No. He forced his mind to clear itself. This matter would not solve itself. “No one will dare to. Everything you’re suggesting is an excuse to yourself, Merlin. You need none. You should seek none.”

“Felgrad must fall,” he bit out. “For all he’s done, for everything he’s committed, he must pay.”

“Time makes dust of all men.” She smiled ruefully. “You, him, Pendragon. He will end up dead one way or another. So why must you hunger so...zealously for conflict? Why seek it? Let it be, Merlin, and stay with us. With me and Uther and Lance and all of us.”

“I cannot. Not with the boy showing what he has. He _cannot_ be allowed to fall into Felgrad’s clutches. Who knows what will happen to him if he goes to Felgrad’s court?”

“I am not blind, Merlin. The spars, the renewed spirit. You want him as a weapon.” She shook her head. “You think using him against Felgrad is any better?”

“I will not gamble on fate,” Merlin snarled. “I won’t let chance decide it. I will make a king, or I will _break him trying!”_

He froze. 

Viviane froze.

Merlin swallowed. “I have to,” he whispered hoarsely. _“I have to_. If not me, who else will stand up to Felgrad’s reign of terror? If not me, who will fix what was broken? If not me, then...then who?”

“Listen to yourself, Merlin,” she said. “Take a pause, and listen to yourself.”

He collapsed on his chair. Feeling his resolve crack.

“The boy has a better life than war,” Viviane said. “The monastery will deal with his problems, the armor will keep him safe. Priests will sanctify him. He will be what Pendragon never could be, a man of peace. A keeper of peace.”

Merlin’s head leaned back, he stared at the ceiling. “...It’s over, isn’t it?”

“It has been over since you ran,” Viviane said. “Ever since Felgrad reigned. Ever since we buried Pendragon.”

“He can’t fight. I can’t raise an army,” Merlin’s spoke, toneless and emotionless. “This is...all it amounted to. No sound or fury. Only endless quiet, and mocking serenity.”

Viviane leaned closer, hugging him with a kind smile. “What’s wrong with a quiet end? What’s wrong with being content?”

_Everything._

_Every. Damn. Thing._

“I can’t let Felgrad control us,” Merlin said, refusing to answer her question. “I can’t accept that. I can’t allow such a man to dictate terms, to be in power over us. Our lives are hanging on the knife edge that is his whim.”

“You can,” Viviane said. “He’s a tyrant ruling over tyrants. Any other man would be devoured alive, yet they fear him. They keep order in his name. They dread his attention. We all do.”

“And when he dies, his false order will disintegrate,” he replied. “An order where, so long as he lives, he will hunt us down.’

Viviane craned her head, nuzzling into him. “Until he gets bored of it, and decides to make an example of some other fool with a pointy hat.”

“You’ll never let that go, will you?” he asked rhetorically, a dry smirk racing along his features. It lasted a moment, fading the next.

“You promised Uther,” she said, trying to make him see. “When we buried Pendragon, you promised it was over.”

“He _cannot_ retain control of the throne,” Merlin said. “He will die, and his order will shatter like the fragile glass it is. Everything resembling peace will be torn apart by the houses.”

Viviane snorted. “Felgrad? Losing control? Merlin. Stop lying to yourself. I’m not one of those fools you can lie to. You know as well as I do that Felgrad always has a plan.”

She sighed, her hot breath moving through his robe and tickling his skin. “Stop it, Merlin, stop this foolery and honor the promise we made. Let Lance marry his girl, let Arthur leave this war we started, and let yourself die surrounded by those you love, instead of...”

“By those I love,” Merlin said, slowly, feeling his head drum. “Instead of what?”

“Instead of dying alone on some foolish scheme of yours, wishing there was someone there to ease the pain,” she replied, milky eyes almost piercing through him. 

“You know I can’t, Viviane,” Merlin said sadly. “I swore I would end Felgrad’s reign and install a Pendragon on the throne. I swore it to Pendragon before he died, though he never shared that oath with his children.” He was silent for a moment before grumbling under his breath. “Not that his girl would have kept it a secret.”

“Then I’ll do what I promised Pendragon,” Viviane said sweetly. _Too_ sweetly. Merlin felt a prick. He looked down, seeing dozens of needles poking out of his shirt.

“....Ah.” He chuckled, realization hitting him like a hammer. “Pendragon…”

“Made me promise to keep you fools alive,” Viviane said, hand cupping his cheek. “You, that foolish daughter of his, and his idiot son who could never hold a blade right.”

His body grew heavy. He felt his eyes struggle to stay open. “It will happen eventually Viv,” he slurred.

“Lance will ride you out, he’ll keep you safe,” she said, face sad. “Don’t provoke my boy. I told him to break bones if he had to.”

“...You damn witch,” he said, barely able to speak clearly.

“I know I am, but I have a promise to keep, even if that means making you break yours.” Vivane stroked his cheeks, pausing. “Do you know what Pendragon told me, before he died?”

“...What?”

She smiled, a truly gentle thing brought out only when remembering fond memories. “ _‘Throw our swords to the lake, let them pass like the past.’”_

“..You couldn’t.”

“No,” she replied. “...I couldn’t let my son’s last memory fade, I couldn’t let the memory of their lives go. This is my apology to Pendragon for being selfish.”

Merlin closed his eyes, almost as if, far away, he could hear Lancelot’s voice speak. He could feel his body being moved. 

_I can’t...run…_

He tried to open his eyes.

_Felgrad...must...fall…_

He dreamt of the dungeons, and the screams.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

_Date: Sixteenth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

“You’re the smith,” Reece said, recognizing him. “I remember you.”

Jormund’s tone was neutral, confident. “I worked for many lords. Mine and my master’s works are of legend.” He leaned over the counter table. “Many places I’ve worked. Perhaps from there you recognise me?”

“No,” Reece muttered, straightening out the fur of his cloak. “I recognise who always went to you for your service.”

“Great master,” Jormund replied, his expression closed and stubborn. “I prithee take care of the past. It has passed for a reason.”

“I seek an old man,” Reece tried. “You might know of him.”

“The past,” Jormund said slowly, firmly. “Has passed. Won’t you agree, great master?” 

Reece paused, taking care of his surroundings. A look, and he could see it. He was surrounded by young men. Hidden there and there, almost begging for him to see them. He’d noticed a similar group around their encampment, around Pryce, Talfryn, and Redneghast. 

“The past tends to haunt men who flaunt it,” Reece replied.

“No,” Jormund said. “It haunts those who chase it.”

“We all must do our duty as we are commanded.” Reece leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter opposite the smith. “And we hold no duties to those who risk our lives, and the lives of our loved ones.”

“My duty,” Jormund said. “Is to my loved ones, and to make tools for men. No more. No less.”

Reece hummed in thought. He wouldn’t get any information out of him like this. He’d have to try something else. “My friend here requires a new warhammer,” he said, gesturing to Redneghast. “He broke his old one, you see, and he’s just about worthless with any other weapon.”

“Reece,” Redneghast muttered, shame causing a flush of embarrassment to come to his cheeks. “I said sorry.”

“Then stop breaking hammers,” Reece muttered back, tone soft. “We can’t always make you new ones.”

“Not my fault they break like soggy bread.” Redneghast stamped his feet. “I can’t make bread not soft.”

“Cannot,” Reece corrected him idly. “You cannot make bread not soft.”

“I said so!” Redneghast mumbled, small nubs of teeth in his mouth. 

“Shush.” Reece turned back to Jormund. “How much, and how long will it take?”

Jormund rubbed his chin. “Perhaps, great master, our duties extend to each other.”

“A change of heart?” Reece asked.

“Our loved ones are to be taken care of,” Jormund continued. “But I am a smith, no more. And I take pride in such. I’ve come in possession of metal and items of great value.”

“All I wish for is a hammer of great make.” Reece idly glanced at the cluttered smithy. 

A chunk of metal dropped on the table. “Not any hammer,” Jormund said. “A hammer to make mythos seem _petty._ Something of true value, and truer make.”

The metal shone blue-gold, reflecting color in shades he’d never seen. “Of what foreign land is this metal?” Reece asked, genuinely curious. 

“One might call it a divine land,” Jormund jested.

Reece snorted, humored. “And if I am to take your words at their value, what is its worth?”

“A king’s ransom.” Jormund handed the chunk and a hammer to Redneghast. “Shatter it if you can.”

Redneghast tilted his head, looking to Reece for permission. 

“Do it.”

Redneghst took the hammer, throwing the chunk of metal to the ground. He raised the hammer, the physique of a colossus bulging, muscles tensing, his whole form rippling with power that frightened and awed.

With the whole limb thrown into the motion, from shoulder to waist to heel, Redneghast the Collosal _struck._

The ground burst from the force.

Dirt scattered, specks flying. 

Sound rang with fury in their ears, ringing metal like singing bells.

Cracks rang along the hammer as Redneghast stared in confusion. “Reece, why is it not broken?”

 _Why indeed._ Reece turned to the smith. “I will pay a king’s ransom for the name of the merchant that sold you this metal. More, if you tell us which land this metal came from.”

“Great master,” Jormund said. “The merchant that brought it has died. Sickened by traveler’s disease.”

Annoyance panged hot across his nerves. _Of course._ If it was easy or nearby, they would have heard of it before now. No doubt it was a far and obscure land, else the imperials would know of it. The arrogant imperials and their rich cities. Always knowing, always demanding.

“How much of it has he sold to you?” Reece asked, shaking those thoughts away.

“All that he had, and how to forge it.” Jormund smiled.

He knew that smile, the smile of a silk merchant aware of his indispensability. The smile of an imperial commander, his nigh unbeatable army at his back. 

“It cannot be forged by normal methods,” Reece stated more than asked.

Jormund shook his head. “No. It must be shaped in boiling water, drawn from the same place the metal was brought from, else the metal does not soften or melt. Even still, shaping it is a challenge of skill. Few could shape it, fewer can shape it well.”

 _Or the imperials knew of it, but knew not how to shape it._ The idea stuck in his mind. To carry water from far off lands, to lands outside of where the metal was mined...The difficulty boggled the mind. Easier to... _buy weapons already forged._

They would be rare beyond belief and expensive as silk. No land would give the secrets of its trade, or the secret of its power, so freely, unless exiled, cast out. Unless one was dying and desperate for aid.

“He gave you already forged weapons,” Reece guessed. “Or he held such, and you took it upon his death.”

“Great master,” Jormund said with a smile that told of hidden knowledge. “I hold many secrets, and my only duty is my craft.”

The choice.

The consequences.

“Of the weapons that have come to your possession, do you hold swords?” Reece queried. “Warbows, too?”

“Swords with edges that do not dull, sharp enough to pierce mail and gambeson alike,” Jormund confirmed. “The blades are of unusual design, but they are made with purpose.”

“And of warbows?”

“None. Their people seem not to make use of them,” Jormund leaned closer. Reece leaned to listen. “Their people make full body clothing of metal.”

Reece’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve come into possession of those.”

“Arrows?” Jormund laughed, humour tinged with fear. “Such are to be laughed at.”

The two men stood, Redneghast looming behind Reece, Jormund leaning over his counter, the forge being worked by apprentices behind them. “My duties are to my craft and loved ones. What happens otherwise is no duty of mine.”

The choice.

The consequences.

“Then keep to your duty, and I will keep to mine, and our duties will interact as duties do.” Reece offered his hand. “Give to me what you hold, and I will give you what I hold.”

“Thus are our duties.” Jormund took it. 

“Let the past pass, was it?” Reece muttered, looking at darkening clouds. 

Jormund nodded, looking up alongside him. “Lest it hunt old fools who chase it.”

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

The lake glimmered in the full moonlight. Reece’s mare walked at a slow pace, enjoying the breezy weather and the calm scenery. He, too, enjoyed it. Trees with green leaves covering the lake on all sides, fallen leaves floating serenely on its surface.

Hoofs clacked on unpaved ground, with trained finesse, _Laimeri_ maneuvered and neighed happily. He patted her neck, taking out a biscuit from his pockets and feeding her. 

“Good girl.” He smiled softly. 

_This horse will be yours, my child._ Reece heard, the memory playing of its own accord. _She’s served me well. And she shall serve you as well._

“..What’s her name?” Reece asked himself, hand caressing her neck.

_Laimeri._

His smile fell, he closed his eyes. Trying to not think. Do not think. Forget the memory. Forget them. He couldn’t. He heard it, as clear as the day was.

The swing of Felgrad’s sword.

The rolling of the head.

 _‘The child bears the sin of the father’._ Regal. Powerful. A monarch whose every step made men _flinch. ‘Will he make amends, or suffer the consequence?’_

“Make amends,” he whispered, feeling as tiny as he was that day. Laimeri neighed, he patted her. Taking a long, deep breath and softly spurring her forward. Branches crunched underneath her feet, and her hot breath misted in the breeze.

 _Faster._ He spurred her on, feeling the air on his skin, the clatter of hoofs on the dirt. _Faster._ They weaved around trees. Running and running. Letting the only matter of consequence be the rush of air and the inhale of breath.

He rubbed her neck as Laimeri slowly wound down. Looking around the place, he found a large rock, one with grooves that made it easily climbable. He guided Laimeri there, holding her by the reins and only taking them off once she leaned down to drink.

He saw a figure atop the rock, covered in a fur blanket, warming himself against the cold. The figure was smaller than a full grown man- or woman- would be. A child at the cusp of reaching his height.

“Hail,” he greeted them. “My name is Reece, and you are?”

The figure didn’t turn to meet him. He saw a small shuffle. “Arthur,” a voice answered, quiet and solemn. A young boy’s voice.

He understood that solemnity. The solemnity of loss, of change, of knowing that what has happened would never unhappen. Reece faced towards the lake, seeing the mesmerizing reflection of the moon.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Reece offered. “Knowing you can’t turn back.”

“...You don’t know anything,” Arthur replied quietly.

“No, I don’t,” Reece said. “I am as ignorant of your pain as you are of mine. There is a barrier of _knowing_ how that feels that neither of us will pass. Each of our pains is our own, no other has the claim or the ability to grasp its feeling.”

“Why, then, are you talking?” the boy asked, as a head of brown hair peeked out from under the blankets.

“Because pain is all the same pain. The differences matter little.” Reece knelt down, sitting on the grass and leaning on the rock. “Every mother who loses a child feels different, but they all shriek the same shriek of loss.”

He picked up a rock. “Every son who loses a father feels a void, but they all fill it with something different.” He threw it, skipping it across the lake. “And everyone who has had their lives torn and no longer knows rightful sense, who no longer knows where he is headed, feels that clinging, clawing pain.”

“That sense of loss,” Reece continued, grabbing another rock, “that leaves you asking ‘what next?’ That leaves you wondering ‘where to now?’ And you don’t know. You couldn’t possibly know.”

“...I want it to go back. Everything made sense.”

“It won’t.” He threw his rock, grabbing another and throwing it towards the boy. “There is no way to change what has happened. To make a whole of something with parts lost. You can only build new parts, fill in the holes.” 

“With what?” the boy bit out. “With pain and confusion?” 

“With the courage to suffer.” Reece stood up, winding up for his throw and hurling the rock. It danced across the lake, skipping seven times. “With patience and endless resolve.”

“I don’t want any of it,” Arthur said, voice low, morale broken. “I don’t want to suffer, to have pain hound me like... _like this Hell._ ” A hand gripped his head. “It hurts. It hurts. Everything _hurts._ Down to my soul, I can _feel_ pain.”

“What did you think life was?” Reece asked, playing with a rock in his hands. 

The boy paused. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t this.”

Reece hummed in thought. “Then it is _this,_ whatever this is. It is suffering and pain and horror and loss and despair and confusion. All of it. There is no escaping it, there is no hiding from it.”

“Why?” the boy whimpered, haunted. “Why?” he repeated, almost as if asking someone else.

“I don’t know,” Reece admitted. “But I know that if it were not this, then it would have meant nothing. How would we know light if all we lived in was dark?” His voice became filled with conviction. “How would we know pleasure without pain? Courage without horror? How would we know to gain without loss?”

“I don’t care,” the boy replied. “Is it so wrong to want the good without the bad? Even if it was meaningless?”

“I think it’s noble, but naive.” Reece threw the rock, it skipped four times. “Hopeful, but ignorant. Confused, seeking clarity.”

“Clarity,” the boy said, trying the word and not understanding it.

“To see and understand an idea with totality,” Reece explained. “The lake reflecting the moon is clear, it is understood and seen with certainty and coherency.”

“Clarity without confusion,” Arthur said, thinking out loud.

“You cannot hold one without the other’s existence,” Reece stated. “To find clarity in the storm of life. That is what you’re asking for.”

“No,” the boy denied. “I’m asking for the pain to...to..”

“Go away?” Reece hazarded.

“Become bearable,” Arthur said. “To stop being _so heavy._ I can’t bear this weight, I can barely breathe with it. And I know, I know it won’t ever go away.”

“Good.”

_‘Why did you...why did you...to dad...it hurts..it hurts...’ His tears blinded him, his hand gripping his shirt. Fear paralyzed him._

_Cold eyes looked down at him, crown gleaming gold, bloody sword dripping red. Unpained. Unfazed. Unaffected. ‘The child bears the sin of the father. Will he make amends, or suffer the consequences?’_

_‘Make...amends.’ He forced his trembling mouth to say._

“Good?” the boy asked slowly, rising anger and incredulity in the tone. 

“It means you’re still human,” Reece said. “You still have a heart to feel pain. You're not a monster, a shell, some possessed _thing_ masquerading as a human.” He tried to throw a rock, and it barely skipped once. He gripped his shaking hand, forcing it to still.

“Human,” The boy chuckled bitterly. “Having a heart.” He said, voice louder. “What does it matter when it _hurts so much?”_

“Because you have nothing to live for, no weight to bear. No duty to hold true to,” Reece said, hand stilled. “The pain becomes laughable when you bear something more mountainous than it.” 

The reflection of the moon grew brighter, as clouds passed. “I...don’t know what that is...for me..”

“Find it.” Reece replied. “And when you find it?”

_‘The girls are scared.’ Red lips parted, emerald eyes softened. Her shining silver necklace a weight around her neck. A constant weight; one that reminded her of the responsibility she bore. ‘They’re worried for you. What if you...’_

“What then?” Arthur asked.

_‘I will come back. I always do.’_

Reece touched his wife’s necklace in his pocket. A memory that would never leave, nor the revelations gained. “You do everything you can to make sure you can hold onto it. Even at the cost of others, even at the steepest price you must make others pay.”

“Is it...worth it?” Arthur asked, disturbed. “To hurt others...I don’t like that. Causing pain to others?”

_Cold eyes looked down at him, sun gleaming gold, ruby ring shining red. Sword glinting silver. ‘Will you make amends, or will the children make amends for the father?’_

“If you wish for something of value, you must take it. If you have something of value, others will come for it,” he said, grabbing another rock, stilling his hand by force of will, and steadying his breath _._ “If you have a weight to bear, something to make the pain seem humorous in contrast, then you, with hardened resolve and furious heart, must clench your fist.” 

He threw the rock in his hand, water splashing with every bounce. It bounced eight times. “And with that clenched fist, you do everything you can to hold onto that weight, onto that mountainous force that animates you.”

“Anything?” 

_‘I will make amends.’_

“Anything.” Reece confirmed.

Laimeri neighed. He placed the reins back and jumped atop her. Slowly, he peered back at the boy atop his rock. Clouds covered the moonlight, and, when the boy glanced at him, he could barely see his features. Only his eyes, begging for clarity. 

“Anything and everything you must,” he said, and spurred Laimeri to gallop. “Seek your weight, take it, and keep it.”

 _Even if you must destroy others for it,_ Reece knew.

Beneath the clouded moonlight, he rode back into town, unaware of the gaze the boy had. Nor the resolve slowly forming in his heart.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

When Merlin woke up, he was still on Lancelot’s horse. Then he felt the pain in his back, neck, and thighs from slouching on a moving horse. Damn it, he was getting too old for this. He groaned, feeling the pinpricks of Viviane’s needles.

“Awake?” Lancelot asked. “Gran said to break you if you tried anything.”

“Ah, lovely woman. Where are we, my boy?” he asked, craning his head to look at Lancelot. 

“About three hours away from Glywssing,” the boy answered. “We’ve stopped to get some water from the lake before we set off again.”

Merlin felt something...die. He felt it wriggle and shrivel up inside him, like a bonfire losing its last spark. It was his banishment from the court all over again, only, this time, he had something to lose, something that meant something to him, something that he cared about.

“Gran?” Lancelot asked.

“I’m…” He stopped, looking up at the darkening sky overhead. It would rain, soon enough. “I’m not okay.” He said with a bitter laugh. 

“Okay,” Lancelot said with a shrug.

“I haven’t been okay ever since I was banished from court,” he started. “I haven’t been okay since I watched Felgrad make a mockery of justice. I haven’t been okay since I realized…since I realized I won’t win this game.”

He picked himself up and trudged towards the lake. He felt old. Older. Decrepit and shambling and lost. “I haven’t been okay since Pendragon died.”

“...I’m sorry,” Lancelot quietly murmured, not knowing anything else to say.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin replied with a twisted, pained smile. “It’s no one's fault. It’s not the fault of your father, that I failed him when he depended on me most. It’s....it’s mine. It’s..mine.”

“My dad,” Lancelot asked quietly. “Gran doesn’t tell me much. She doesn’t like me asking.”

Merlin closed his eyes. “Pendragon was the shadow all men learned to fear. He was the silver glint of death, their coming demise, certain as the day falls to night, The nightmare they feared when swords left their sheaths. But your father, Ban, he…”

“He was the opposite.” He smiled, bitterly. Remembering Ban, the Dragon’s Shadow. “The peacemaker, the jovial one. Where Pendragon made men quake in dread, Ban made them quake in laughter. It seemed an odd pair, the two of them. The court didn’t know how to act when they sat together.”

Lancelot smiled, sadness in his eyes. 

“Felgrad too, enjoyed their company,” Merlin remembered fondly. “He enjoyed the air, the stability. The rhyme and rhythm of it all. Ban his peacemaker, Pendragon his executioner, I his advisor, and everyone else within their place. There were times when he caught his dour self smiling, when he thought no one could see.”

“Why did…” Lancelot quieted, unable to dredge up the desire to ask.

“Why did everything change?” Merlin asked. “Felgrad was poisoned. For a week and a day, Felrgad laid in his bed, an inch from death, yet refusing. He _refused_ to die, and, because he refused, everything changed.”

_Cold eyes gleamed silver. Crown reflected flame in gold. The bedsheets were stained blood red. Sweat and sickness pervaded the room._

“I remember it.” 

_Heartbeat stopping. Breath ceasing. Eyes closing._

“As clear as day.”

_Eyes dull grey-silver. Room a dull flame gold. Lips stained red._

Merlin shuddered. “Felgrad denied death, and death took something in return. He could no longer smile. Could no longer find joy. Or...”

“Or?” Lance asked, tilting his head.

“He sacrificed something,” Merlin said, in realization. “In order to live on, he sacrificed his heart. To...do what he couldn’t have done, to do what others couldn’t do. To achieve a task, _his task_...he sacrificed his heart.”

“How does his blood move, then?” Lancelot asked.

“His emotions,” Merlin explained, himself seeing what he couldn’t see before. “To live on, he killed the pain of betrayal. He...sacrificed it...his connections to others...his empathy. To see things to the end he...to see things through...he…”

He remembered it.

_Eyes gleamed hot silver. Polished crown shun furious gold. Royal ring glistened crimson red. Skeletal and hollow, skin sticking to his bones._

_Pendragon. Ban. Merlin._

_All men kneeled._

_All men heard Felgrad’s declaration of war._

“He made war the likes of which no one had seen before.” Merlin looked into the surface of the lake, and his old visage haunted him. “The Imperials, the Germanic tribes, those disloyal. Without an iota of heart, or one sand grain’s mercy, he made war.”

Lancelot hesitated. “What did he do to them?”

“He broke them. Broke them beyond pity. Broke them until they ran and fled, with no true place to go, no place to hide from the fury of the Dragon King.”

He could almost see the fires of that war here. In the reflection, he could almost hear the screams. The fear, he could almost smell it. In exchange for his heart, Felgrad took power without peer or enemy to survive him.

No one loved him.

No one around him.

All those he once smiled around, dead.

“Gran?” Lance asked.

“I’m...fine.” He smiled, and laughed and laughed until his chest felt free. “I’m fine. I’ve just realized what truly matters.” He breathed in and breathed out. He looked away from the lake, from the past. “The past has passed. I’ve let go, and I won’t try to hold on anymore.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Are you...okay, Gran?”

“Viviane was right,” he said. “Not only am I a fool, I am an ignorant, stupid, dimwitted, and stubborn fool, obssessed with his past. I couldn’t win a losing fight, and yet I was demented enough to fool myself into fighting it, with no end but the end I wanted.”

The sun was covered by clouds, and the world grew darker.

High above, the sky overhead crackled with thunder. Rain would come soon to wash everything away.

He stared into the lake, hand brushing his hair back. Slicking it until only one strand remained, white as silver, almost glinting in the dying light. He stood up, back straight. “I was a fool, I can see that now.”

Lancelot smiled. “It is not the fool that sees his mistakes, Gran. You are no fool. Come on, let’s get going.“

“Where did Viviane tell you to head?” Merlin asked, picking up his staff. He felt for the hidden blade inside of it. The journey would be long, the path arduous. The end, though, would mean everything. He sighed softly and reached for something inside himself, something he knew was there. Grasping it firmly, he broke the shell keeping it from him as he got onto the horse in front of Lancelot.

“We’re to make for the next village to the east,” Lancelot replied. “The King’s men have already searched that village, so they won’t expect us to go there.” 

Merlin shook his head firmly. “No, that won’t do at all. We’ll be exposed there. Towys will be our aim, the Hutchings will host us. Now, turn us around and make for the north. We’ll need to hurry if we’re to make it there in a timely manner, my boy.”

“Gran said not to listen to you,” Lancelot said.

“And which of us knows how to survive being hunted down?” Merlin smirked. 

“You,” Lancelot admitted grudgingly. “But Gran said not to give you chances.”

Merlin smiled, feeling the Power spread through his body. “A shame. If she didn’t, then we wouldn’t be risking our lives because I can’t give you the advice you need.”

He didn’t wait for Lancelot to respond before he made his move, tendrils moving like snakes as they touched Lancelot’s mind. He felt the boy stiffen behind him, if only momentarily, before he spoke. 

“Won’t need it if you keep on your toes,” he shot back, though he was hesitant to do so. 

_Good,_ Merlin thought to himself. _It’s working. Just one more…_

He pushed some more and felt the resistance from Viviane’s orders completely fade away. “Let’s go back, Lancelot, I need to get some things before we go.”

“Of course,” Lancelot replied, turning the horse around and heading back to the village.

Merlin allowed himself a small smile. With glowing, amethyst-ringed eyes hardened and heart steeled, he looked at the fury of the heavens above.

“What a terrible realization it is, to see what must be done.” He spread his arms as the first droplets of rain fell. “To let go, and sacrifice my heart?” He chuckled. “Very well.”

Even if he had to pull down the heavens themselves, upon their heads, if need be.

Even if he had to go out kicking and screaming and biting.

Felgrad _would_ fall.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

_Date: seventeenth day of the fourth moon, Anno Domini 501_

“It’s going to rain,” Uther said, smiling. “Do you like the rain, Lord Felgrad?” the man asked as his wife put down plates of food for them. Outside, they could see the blackened clouds thicken. 

Redneghast sniffed at it, then poked it with his fork. The odd creature was many-legged, strange, tiny and ringed with red. Igraine covered her mouth, hiding her smile. Her daughter was quiet, too quiet. 

“This is strange food, Reece,” he said. “What is it?” 

“Shrimp, Redneghast. Shrimp,” Reece spoke, calmly taking a bite of his own food.

Brows furrowed in confusion. “Why does it have legs? Last shrimp had no legs, Reece. Why does it have legs? I don’t want things with legs.”

“You’ve never had shrimp, Lord Redneghast?” Uther asked.

Slowly, Redneghast shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Reece, did I have shrimp?”

“My lady wife made some for you,” Reece reminded him. “She took off the legs.”

With hesitation, he looked at Reece. Then towards Igraine. Shyly, he put down his fork. “Reece.”

“No.”

“Please,” Redneghast begged.

Reece Felgrad took a long, winding, exhausted breath. “Lady Igraine, would you please excuse such a gross violation of table etiquette?” he asked, starting to pick off legs from his own plate and stacking them to the side.

At her amused nod, he threw them at Redneghast with a flick of his finger. Mouth open wide, eyes jovial, Redneghast snatched them out of the air, teeth half-grown out. He swallowed, laughing loud and boisterous. 

“Again!” Redneghast said, clapping. “Fun!”

“You promise to help Pryce gather the tents to prepare for rainfall?” Reece said, holding another legless shrimp hostage.

Redneghast froze. Eyes snapping back and forth. Trapped by the question. “I don’t want,” he tried to look away. 

Morgana laughed. “Lazy bum,” she quipped. 

“Meanie,” Redneghast snapped at her. 

“Then no more legless shrimp for you,” Reece said simply.

Redngehast gasped in shock, looking at his own shrimp before wrinkling his nose and looking at Reece with a small frown. “I help Pryce, you give good shrimp?” he asked, trying to adopt a bargaining attitude and failing miserably.

In response, Reece nodded and flicked another piece of shrimp towards him. In the next moment, the lady of the house took his plate and knife away to fix the “bad shrimp”. As she straightened, the knife fell out of her grasp blade first, falling and slicing into the back of Redneghast’s hand. 

No reaction of pain, nothing but momentary annoyance. With reflex too fast for someone so large, he caught the knife. “You okay?” Redneghast asked, tone slow, eyes down at the cut.

She nodded, seemingly horrified that she had injured a guest, and one of the king’s men, at that. “Y-yes, the knife just slipped out of my hand.” she stuttered. “Please accept my most humble apologies.”

“Mama?” Morgana asked, looking at her oddly. 

Uther laughed, patting Morgana. His eyes locked on his wife. “No harm done, accidents do happen. Don’t you agree, Lord Felgrad?”

He caught the odd interactions, but he could not parse them. Was she simply afraid and hiding it? Afraid enough to lose her grip?

“No harm done,” Reece agreed. “Lady Igraine, some cloth.” 

Slowly, gently, she handed a strip of cloth over to him. He grabbed Redneghast’s arm, and slowly wrapped the piece of cloth around the cut, the large, meatly palm almost dwarfing his knee.

“Cut feels weird,” Redneghast murmured, Reece snorted.

Uther smiled. “Is he a relation, Lord Felgrad?”

“No,” Reece said simply, tying the cloth with a sweep. 

“I see,” Uther said in reply. 

Outside, thunder barked, and they could hear the pitter-pat of falling rain. For a second, the lights of the house flickered as a gust blew through the open window. 

“Honey, ” Igraine said, leaning over her husband. “Isn’t your nephew late? He promised to bring the candles back yesterday.”

“Morgana, sweetheart,” Uther said. “Can you go bring out the candles from your grandmother’s?” He looked out. “We’ll need them.”

She blinked, confused. “Don’t we-” She paused. “Did they run out?” 

“I think they did,” Uther told her. “Even if not, we’ll need more. Better safe than sorry.”

“Okay.” 

“Quick,” he stated, voice encouraging. “While the rain is still light.”

“Okie,” Morgana replied, hopping off her chair and running off, outside of the house. When the sound of her footsteps could no longer be heard, Uther relaxed. 

“Lord Felgrad,” the man said suddenly. “Have you ever thought about trust?”

Reece stopped eating, thinking about it. “Many a time.”

“It’s a terrible thing, to put something of value in the hands of another. To give vulnerability, to show weakness, to let yourself be bared,” the priestly man continued. “But it is the only thing we ever truly have. Trust in ourselves, in others, in our loved ones, in our friends.”

“Trust,” Reece mused. 

“Could we function without it?” Uther asked him, playing with the spoon in his hands. “If you had no trust in others, could you live with them? If you had no trust in who they are, could you bear with them? If they had nothing worthy of trust, should you suffer them?”

“No.”

“Of course, trust has another name, one that helps many a man keep moving forward: faith. Faith in their loved ones, faith in their friends, faith in their God or gods. It does not matter, for they have faith. Faith that there is hope, that there is good, that there is kindness.”

“False faith,” Reece remarked.

Uther glanced at Igraine, the woman smiled. Too tightly, too controlled. “Or maybe misplaced, maybe deluded, or maybe it is born of ignorance, but we couldn’t live without it.”

He felt his guts constrict. Thunder roared, the fury of its sound shaking the heavens. The rain intensified. “You sound trepidatious.” 

“I am,” the man admitted. 

“Of what?” Reece asked, hand reaching for his sword.

Thunder rang. Wind howled with rain. Outside the house, nature’s wrath manifested itself, washing the world with water and cold. 

Reece heard something. Someone. The din of steel, the scream of a dying man. Shouts muted by the rain. He felt the world slow down, time scratching, as his every instinct screamed. 

Uther laughed, he laughed, and laughed, tears fell out of his eyes.

“A shame,” Reece answered honestly. “A shame the peace did not last. A shame it comes to this.”

“Reece?” Redneghast asked, confused, unable to parse what had happened. Looking back and forth, utterly bewildered. “Why is the nice man sad?”

It happened in an eye blink.

Uther ceased laughing, baring his teeth bared in utter fury. His knee hit the table, kicking at Reece. Igraine’s eyes sharpened, a pair of daggers tearing out of her sleeves. She rammed one through Redneghast’s hand, and sent the second hurtling at Reece.

 _When betrayed,_ Reece kicked the table back, ducking under the knife. _Fight like a starving wolf._

With one fist, Redneghast shattered the table, tearing a plank out. Reece unsheathed his blade. It whistled, hungry for blood. 

Uther stood and kicked out again, his boot hitting Reece’s sabaton. Even with the armor on, it still hurt. To make matters worse, Redneghast was down a hand- the dagger buried to the hilt in his flesh and sticking out the other side- and the sound of the boot against his armor struck the air like the toll of a bell, a call for war.

“Uther!” Igraine called.

Reece caught the glint of silver, a blade. A sword unsheathed. 

Uther caught it, swung it once to familiarize himself with it after who knew how long, and turned back to Reece.

“Leave, woman,” he ordered. “Now.”

“Uther!” Igraine hissed, another pair of dagger in her hands. 

“Go.” He commanded his wife, voice hardened steel. 

“Uth-”

“Go! Now!” he roared, taking a stance. Blade held parallel to his body, head held high, eyes locked on his opponents.

The woman choked on a sob, fleeing as fast as her feet could carry her. Redneghast tried to chase and fell to his knees, almost losing his footing as his knees wobbled.

Holding his head in his hand, he yelped and brought the hand with the dagger still in it away from his face. A blot of blood welled on his face, a prick of the blade, but it was nothing compared to the blood running down both sides of his hand.

“The knife,” Reece growled. _“Take. Out. The. Knife.”_

Redneghast growled, ripping it out in one motion. He stood swaying on his feet, unable to focus his eyes. “Reece,” Redneghast bit out. “Can’t stand.”

Reece turned to Uther, sword at stance. 

The wind howled.

The thunder crackled.

Uther’s blade shone in the dim of lightning. 

Reece struck first, going for the legs. Swords met in flashing steel. He was thrown off balance when the priest _pushed_. He fell back a step, his blade going with him. 

The same steel as his blade. 

The same metal Jormund had found.

_They were prepared for them._

_Damn it,_ Reece cursed himself. What did he expect the son of Pendragon to do? Lay down and die? _Damn it._

Uther didn't stay in the house. In one flowing motion, he jumped out of the window. Reece heard the scream of one of his men. It fell silent as quick as it sounded. Letting his men keep Pendragon busy, he turned to Redneghast. 

Still on his knees, he was holding his hand as if it were made of glass. “Juice is coming out of my hand. Why does my hand have juice in it?”

 _Hallucinations?_ He chewed on his lips, anger rising like bile. Redneghast would not be able to fight, not for a time.

He made a decision.

He rushed out the door, wrenching it from its hinges. Feet storming, the sight that greeted him was one of blood, gore, and death. Heaving, blade blood-wet, Uther, son of Pendragon, stood, heading straight for the stables.

One horse was already missing and his men were in disarray. Houses were burning, villagers running, men attacking each other. In the middle of it all was the Pendragon. 

Thunder drowned the world, lightning blinded it. Yet, in the rain, he couldn’t see Uther, not even as his eyes met the man’s own.

He saw someone else, someone who was a nightmare made of bloody steel. 

Snarling to himself, he charged at the priest. Reaching him in mere moments, Reece uttered a roar of rage, a cry of challenge for the nightmare he had set on his men unknowingly.

Uther gutted another soldier as he turned to the noise, flicking his blade to clean it of blood.

They met, swords first. He cleaved down, Uther parried it. He stabbed, Uther sidestepped. Every swing met a counter swing. Every strike parried in sparks of light, steel ringing, until their arms throbbed.

An arrow struck his shoulder.

Uther hissed, sliding through spears, mindlessly heading for the stables. 

A spear stabbed into his back.

Uther stumbled, whirling around, snapping the wood, and slashing the spearman's throat. Blood sprayed, Uther ignored it, focused on his living opponents.

They surrounded him with spears. Shields blocked his path, the stables a mere few steps away. Reece raised a hand, stopping his men. He walked through their ring.

One hand on his wound, Uther raised a quivering arm at him, the metal of his blade shining, reflecting the lightning above. A flash of faces in the bushes, horrified, judging. When he glanced in their direction, he saw nothing but rain dripping down the leaves.

“If you wish for someone to blame for this,” Reece said. “Blame Felgrad.”

Uther laughed, blood and rain washing down his body. He laughed and laughed. When Reece swung his sword, Uther laughed, when he couldn’t block the swing, he laughed. 

He laughed at losing everything.

He laughed at being so close.

He laughed to hide the wrenching pain.

He could not hide it from Reece, could not hide it from a man who knew that laugh. 

Steel flashed, cutting flesh.

When his head rolled across the floor, Uther’s laughing face was trapped in bitter betrayal.

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

_Location: Courtyard, Glywssing_

Merlin said to come, come running, their parents were in danger, Morgana was in danger. They hid from sight, from the spears and soldiery walking around. Mordred had the bright idea of hiding in the bushes, and so they did. From bush to bush, breaths clamped, nerves tingling. 

They hid.

Merlin said to come, come save their parents.

They hid.

Merlin would create a distraction to save the village.

They hid.

Merlin would make it allright.

Lancelot had pinned him down, Mordred’s forearm covering his mouth to stop his screaming. He thrashed, tears in his eyes, rage in his heart. The bush covering them showed everything, through rain, through storm, through the cold, he could see.

 _Why!?_ Why was he being tied down? He had to go, had to _move_. So why was he frozen? Why couldn’t he move? Where was Merlin? Where was anyone? Why was this happening?

He saw the swing.

_Stop._

He heard the head roll.

Please. Stop this nightmare.

His thrashing stopped, heart numbing, mind freezing. Like a moment trapped in time, he saw the head roll. His eyes misted, the world lost its color. Something was ripped, clutched, and torn out from him.

He would wake up.

He had to.

**_Indolent and insolent._ **

“Dammit. Dammit. Dammitdamndamndamndammnniitt!” Mordred growled, teeth gritted. He looked around, trying to figure out a way out here. “Where’s mother? Where’s Merlin? What the hell is happening?”

**_Hesitant and petulant._ **

Lancelot stopped pinning Arthur, wincing when he heard the sobs and whimpers. 

Mordred clenched his fists, looking around the bushes. “Lance, can you get the stables?”

Lance nodded, sword in his hands. “I can.”

“Arthur?” Mordred commanded. “Arthur’s out of it. Damn it. ” 

**_{AMALGAM-BEGIN?ASSAULT|FAULT-INACTIVE|INSUFFICIENT?HOSTMIND}_ **

“Dad...Dad...He’s...why?” Came the choked whimpering. 

**_The results of your inaction._ ** Arthur glanced up, red eyes glanced down at him. **_See how they manifest themselves. Look, look and sear it into your eyes._ **

Arthur’s fist rose and slammed into dirt turned mud by the rain. His throat clogged up, his eyes were blinded by tears. “Shut up,” he growled.

**_I offered you the sword, and you laid it in stone. Sedentary and inactive, afraid and terrified. You changed nothing, you controlled nothing._ **

“Arthur!” Mordred growled back. “Listen to me, I need you-”

**_So the world controlled your reality, and it changed it against your wishes._ **

“Shut. Up!” he hissed, pushing himself to stand. The beating in his heart felt petty, the howling in his head dim. The whole world, singularly all-devouring, that feeling he felt. His skin burned, his world dim to the fury of his drumming heart.

**_Afraid of pain? Afraid of suffering? Afraid of the misery? Look what your fear has wrought, a thousand and one actions you could have taken._ **

“Please,” he whispered. “Stop. I can’t…”

**_You did nothing but hide. You did nothing but timidly close your eyes, will you do so again?_ **

“Do what?” he hissed, face in the ground, tears and spit and snot in his face. “ _Do what?”_

**_Cut the world into shape, take the blade by hand, and wreak your pain upon those who wrought it._ **

Arthur’s hair rose on ends, his hands twitched. His limbs shivered. Memories not his own and thoughts not his danced, like a string he could not grasp. Tangled before him, a red, hungry, zealous string.

**_Cast off the malaise of indirection, take guidance from the fury of your heart._ **

He took that string.

**_Repay the pain, give back the suffering, return the message given._ **

He took that hunger.

**_The world has wronged you, it’s used your weakness to bite and cut into you._ **

Arthur’s lips felt dry, his heart growled with blood thirst. Everything that he was, spoke and whispered what he should do.

“I’ll kill them.”

**_Cut back._ **

“I’ll kill them.”

**_Bite back._ **

“I’ll kill them all.”

**_{AMALGAM-BEGIN?ASSAULT|HOSTMIND-PREPARED|ACTIVE}_ **

He heard someone dimly calling for him. More than one person. Two. They were far off, insignificant. Unimportant. Only one thing mattered now. 

**_{AMALGAM-MINDSTATE-ASSAULT|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|WORKING?CONFIRM}_ **

He drifted off, awake and not awake. He knew where to go, he knew what to do. He had to, they had to, _we have to._ He stood up, seeing every last enemy and where they stood. Where their eyes looked, how their heads moved, how the thunder quaked the world.

“Arthur?” 

He stepped out of the bushes, four steps, pausing to wait for thunder to hide his paces, then dashing into the forest. Trees, branches, he jumped and climbed. The route of the shortest path locked into his mind’s eye.

**_What was taken will never be returned. The dead are to never be returned, the broken never to be fixed._ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTBODY-CIRCULATION|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|INCREASE?5%}_ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTBODY-CIRCULATION|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|INCREASE?20%| HALTING}_ **

Screaming, he fell to the ground. He roared in his agony, fists not there pummeling against his skull. He felt hot and heavy, his blood thrummed against his skin. Something drilling into his skull, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered.

_Kill them._

**_For that crime, vengeance must be upheld. Recompense taken, scorn given back._ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?CORRUPT|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|_ ** **_FAULT?MIND|MENDING}_ **

Murderers, he had to kill them. All of them. _Every last one of them._ Arthur roared through gritted teeth, they cracked from the force. Tufts of his hair fell out, torn out as Arthur clawed at his head. The pain didn’t ease.

He stood up.

Everything that made him was being tortured, dipped into hell.

It didn’t compare to the ethereal pain in his heart.

He exhaled hot mist, every drop of water that struck his body melted. Then, he was walking under a cloud of vapor, all his motions clawing with pain, all his thoughts coiling with one, singular, intent.

**_The old law demands every crime be punished, no evil be let live, no blasphemy be given quarter._ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?MENDED|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|_ ** **_CONTINUING}_ **

_Kill._

**_Kill those that spread corruption in the land, break them, break their unholy existence._ **

**_{AMALGAM-HOSTMIND-RECONCILIATION?MENDED|SYNCHRONIZE-THE-HOST|_ ** **_AWAITING?REPAIR}_ **

Kill them all.

**_Burn this into your mind, it was your weakness and hesitation that brought this, the actions you could have taken, the realities you could have lived. This fate weaved by your own hands_ **

The haze intensified, the pain sharp and raging. Arthur slowed, heaving for oxygen as he stood in the clearing. The armor was looming over him, rain sliding across it, and light dancing on its surface. It was Might. It was _Power._ It was _his._

An idea shattered the haze of hate.

**_{AMALGAM-BEGIN?ASSAULT|FAULT-INACTIVE|INSUFFICIENT?HOSTMIND}_ **

A singular thought, from the very depths of his heart.

“Why did they hurt me?” he asked, voice raw and quiet. “I never wanted to hurt them. Why do we have to hurt each other? Kill each other? I....I...never wanted this.”

The thunder rang.

He was cold, cold to the core.

His heart ached.

“Why?” His voice rose. “Why do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?” he asked, and received no answer.

The Spectre stepped into sight, leaning over the armor. Gastly of form and malicious of gaze. 

**_Force the answers out of their broken flesh,_ ** it said, horns catching light from the heavens. **_Rend the evil suffered, cast aside your fear._ **

With one clawed finger, it pointed at the armor. **_With your sword, carve the injustice suffered unto their souls._ **

The armor opened up.

 ** _Hesitation is a weakness,_ ** the Spectre whispered into his ears, **_mercy is weakness, sympathy is weakness. Fear is weakness. Kindness is weakness. Weakness caused this._ **

The armor swallowed him.

**_Weakness killed your loved one._ **

The last sight he saw was the Spectre’s smile. 

**_Let your strength avenge them._ **

The armor closed up. Steel and flesh became one.

**_{AMALGAM-BEGIN?ASSAULT|HOSTMIND-PREPARED|WORKING?}_ **

**_{ACTIVE}_ **

**_The Mandate wills it._ **

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

Reece knew where Merlin would head. The only place he could, the one place that would accept him unconditionally. The Hutchings of Towys. He would head there, and he would beat them there by several days, if not more. 

He glanced at the headless body, stump gushing blood. He stood there, long enough that his men scattered. Long enough for the rain to intensify.

Pryce came to him.

“You know what to do,” he commanded the man.

“Aye.” The man was oddly solemn. “I’ll give him a burial.” Pryce laid a hand on Reece’s shoulder, stopping him from walking away. Reece’s glare made him withdraw it.

“Apologies, Lord Felgrad,” he said, and meant it. 

_Accept apologies, but make clear the limits._ “Never repeat that. What is it?”

“The woman, should I send a party after her?” he asked. “King Felgrad will want her head.”

“Send riders with messages. I’ll need their best men,” Reece stated. “Tell the local lords to hunt her down, Felgrad will reward them for her head.”

They would have to prepare to crack open the Hutching’s sanctuary. For that, they’d need more weapons than they had, and the necessary men to use them.

“Aye, as you command.”

Reece looked up, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. The rain and thunder clamored, water washing away the blood, the heat, cold and uncaring, it battered them all with its will.

_‘Will you make amends?’_

“Would amends change a thing?” he asked quietly, looking around the silent town square, no one answered. Could they even comprehend the question? He laughed to himself, smile curled and ugly.

“To arms,” he called out, flicking his sword clean of blood. The crimson fluid splattered, washing away in the ruin. “To arms,” he repeated, louder. A command to be followed, not ignored.

“Lord Felgrad?” they asked, confused. They still drew their spears and gathered into formation. 

He paused, looking at the bush, it was between him and six of his men. “I can see you,” he said, then paused. “Your bared steel gave you away.” With a finger, he pointed out the glint of steel to his men.

Someone walked out of the bush. Clad in metal from head to toe. His helm faceless, reflecting the black of the sky above. It was white, as white as day. Enameled and ornamented. It stole his breath away. 

In his hand, a sword with a long crack across its length gleamed in the lightning. 

Slow step by slow step, the figure walked. 

“Jormund,” he murmured, awe warring with annoyance. “Seems you’ve not said everything, fickle blacksmith.” He pointed his sword at the figure. “Cease your approach, lest it be taken as an act of aggression.”

The figure stopped, and a voice spoke. Raw. Guttural. Filled with wrath and furor. “Reece Felgrad,” came the biting roar. The blade whistled in the air, tip first pointed at him. “You took my father from me.”

He recognised the voice.

Reece laughed bitterly. He felt something sour in his belly, and accepted what fate had given him. “Arthur, son of Uther, heir of Pendragon.”

“Why!?” Came the roar of the warrior, clad in unbreakable metal. “Why!?” Came the voice of a boy, young, his heart aching. “Why?” Came a whimper, broken and angry. 

He closed his eyes. Hand shaking. His own memories _banging_ on the doors of his mind. He gave the only answer he knew. “Because I have something I’m not willing to sacrifice. Something too precious to lose.”

“You took my family from me.” The voice was thunderous in its rage, but pained enough to make a mockery of solemnity. “You took my father.”

The sky above rain, and rang with heavenly lightning. Rain beat across his own armor, soaking his cloak.

Redneghast stepped into view, eyes alight with anger. A growl at his throat, hammer hefted and prepared. Talfryn stood up from the roof of a building, warbow aimed and ready, undaunted by rain. Pryce returned, men with spears at his beck and call.

“And nothing, nothing you ever do will bring him back or replace him,” Reece said, taking a stance. 

“Why!?” Arthur took a stance, men surrounding him. Spears and banners being raised, horns and calls to arms being sounded. 

_Never ask a question you know the answer to._ His father had once told him.

“Never ask a question you know the answer to,” Reece replied with a sad smile.

In an instant, Arthur moved, his slow walk becoming a sprint that became a shattering dash. Ground splattered, dirt turned to mud, rain tracing his motions, the wind whistling. 

The sword in Arthur’s hand _sang._ One of his men was gutted in a flash. Face trapped in death, scream silenced as his throat was slit. 

The boy’s foot slammed down, grip reversed, and the whole body blurred into motion. Like a saw, he ripped through his enemies. Like an axe, he cut them down. In a single step, with one motion, he killed.

Another man fell, bisected in two. Entrails flailing and fragments of his spine scattered.

Pryce sounded a horn, commanding his spearmen to surround the boy, charging from all sides. There was no hesitation, no pause, no flinching back. Arthur ran into the spears sword first, rain and mud cast aside with every titanic step.

Wooden shafts shattered to splinters. 

Spear tips cracked to metal fragments.

Men were _charged through._ Bones crunched, flesh pulped, the din of their screams far, far away.

In that moment, with eyes wide and mouth agape in horror and memory, he saw a ghost of the past return. For, in that instance, he knew what he was seeing. Arthur roared, and Reece heard the boy’s choked sob, and he felt his hand shake. 

He did not see Arthur.

Arthur held his sword with both hands, and cleaved it down. Before his blade, a man was sundered, blood and viscera drenching the ground, washing down with the rain.

He did not see a young boy.

Shields battered at him, men roaring back with every bit of fury Arthur possessed. Like an animal, cornered, hissing, growling, and roaring, no man could come close to him. For all their courage, no dared come near.

Reece Felgrad closed his eyes, memories of Pendragon the Dread raging through his mind. When he opened his eyes, he knew what he had to do. 

_When men see nightmares, they hold two choices._

Reece charged, Redneghast at his heel, Pryce drawing his mace and shield to follow suit. A tree rustled, and Reece spied Talfryn and his archers pulling their bows. He gave the man a nod.

_Fight and die, or flee and live._

Spearmen parted, shields and spears fluttering in the rain. Reece met Arthur blade first, parrying a blow that made his wrist _ache,_ stepping across a slash, and _kicking._

Arthur stumbled, Pryce’s shield slamming into his face. 

Reece raised his blade into the air, sweeping down. Arrows rained, most pinging across his armor. A few landed, and, with eyes locked, he saw where they landed. Across joints, in between areas that needed maneuverability. Inside the gorget.

Talfryn released his arrow straight into the heel, right where a piece of armor was missing. One breath, and Arthur was swinging to keep spearmen away. The next, he fell, sword slipping from his hand.

“Redneghast,” he commanded. “ _Shatter him_.”

The colossus heaved and brought down his hammer. Sound halted, rain flew in every direction, and a furious metallic ringing sounded. Reece looked down, and saw the dent in the breastplate.

He heard an indrawn, wet gasp.

Reece looked up, feeling the rain wash over him. His cloak was soaked, the fur would need drying. He closed his eyes.

“Redneghast,” he said, at once a name and a command. 

Redneghast heaved, spinning on his heel, muscles bulging and rain spraying across his form. In one, violent motion, the colossus brought down his hammer a second time. Their ears rang. Without slowing, without needing to think, the giant among men brought his hammer down again.

_Clang!_

And again.

_Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!_

And again and again and again.

_Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!_

Reece turned, hearing the clatter of hoofs and springing horses. “Merlin!” he yelled furiously as he saw the riders. Then he saw where the man had come from, the horse stables were on fire. The loud neighing of horses cutting through the rainfall.

The horses trampled across the distracted spearmen, he saw a young boy- Ban’s child, it had to be- throw a rope that caught Arthur by the legs. 

Reece and Merlin’s eyes met when his horse passed by. Eyes of hardened, brutal resolve, met only with heartless obsession in Merlin’s gaze. 

In a split-second, Merlin drew a blade from his staff, striking from horseback at him. He parried it across the flat of his own sword, drawing a dagger and hurling it. 

In disbelief, he watched the knife bounce off of a floating, amethyst barrier. In seconds, the sprinting horses were too far gone to reach, dragging Arthur behind them.

“Forget the old man! The stables! Save the stables you fools!” Pryce yelled at the stunned men. Some dashed to get buckets and water, while others raced to smother the flames and get the horses out.

Riding through the night and the rain, Merlin escaped their grasp, taking the Pendragon whelp with him.

Standing through the night and rain, Reece Felgrad smiled bitterly.

More than five men dead, more injured. All from a single boy. Not even trained that well.

 _The nightmare returned,_ Reece thought. _The man who made ghosts of men reborn._

\-------------------------------<WFF>\-------------------------------

Arthur’s eyes snapped open.

His breath was stolen from him at the sight he saw. It was a moment shackled in time. A city beyond anything he’d ever seen. It had houses reaching heaven. Streets paved in a soft, white material. It would have been heavenly.

If it hadn’t been a scene from hell.

Blackened banners hung in the air. Statues of ash adorned the streets, the buildings were collapsing, glass was shattered and flying through the air. Chunks of rock, rocketing into the air. He could see a wave of visible force _quaking_ reality apart. The very sky was burning, as ash and dust trailed through the air.

In the horizon, far, far off, a blooming _sun_ bathed the world in thermal malice.

If he listened close, he could hear a word that was an image that was a symbol. Like the buzzing of an insect, it was a whisper that refused to cease.

“This is…”

 ** _‘My home.’_ ** Arthur looked up, and found the Warrior standing atop a ledge. Armor shining silver. **‘** **_My city,’_ ** A clawed hand pointed. **_‘Turned desolate, claimed by the rage of war.’_ **

“You!” Arthur thundered, memories raging in his head. “You lied to me, you made promises, spoke pretty, silken words to me! Tricked me into accepting your deal!” He let that _rage_ escape its chains. Felt the Power course through his veins. 

Dust coiled around him.

Amethyst flame danced on his fingertips.

 ** _‘You are ill of gratitude, impoverished of due respect,_ ** the Warrior replied. **_Your lungs, they breathe, your flesh, it seethes with power, even your soul is an inferno of power. Are you so blind you accept the good and deny the evil it carries?’_ **

The dust fell away, the flames flickered. Arthur swallowed. “You didn’t...tell me it would be like this.”

Arthur’s nerves twitched.

Memories flashed.

Thoughts and instincts curled.

“Stop it _,_ ” Arthur hissed, then whimpered. “I couldn’t even fight, I couldn’t even take vengeance _. Just..._ stop it.”

 ** _‘You want a lie that nothing has changed,’_ ** the Warrior spoke, horned helmet looking at the horizon. ‘ **_That you can go back, go back to where you were ignorant of what awaits.’_ **

“It’s my life!” Arthur roared. “You tricked me, made me think you were offering to make me...”

_A world on fire, screams. Blades and gunfire. Out of the mist we come, the living are trampled beneath our feet. Their eyes fill with fear as our blade becomes whistling death._

**_‘The hero of your life,’_ ** the Warrior gazed away from the blooming sun. **_‘But now, when you close your eyes and think of steel-’_ **

_A dreadnaught on fire, soldiery sucked to the black. The vacuum swallows sounds. We breach in. Our claws sunder gates. Our maces make ghosts of the living._

**_‘-You see what the path of swords is.’_ **

“I just wanted...to be a hero,” Arthur groaned, holding his head. “You made me _think, gave me a lie,_ that this is what you were offering.”

 ** _‘Offering? You think this a trade, your servitude for power?’_ ** the Warrior asked, glancing at the ruined city. **_‘No. This is a gift.’_ **

He shook his head, feeling it begin to pummel. He let out a deep hiss. “You’ve gifted me pain.”

 ** _‘I’ve gifted you the torch of lives,’_ ** the Warrior continued on. **_‘The light of it illuminates all, even that which you’d rather not see.’_ **

“Stop lying to me!” Arthur growled out, teeth bared in fury. “Playing words with me, taking me for an idiot. _You,_ you’re leading me like a goat to your ends! Haunting me! Toying with me!”

 ** _‘In time, you will reach understanding,’_ ** the Warrior’s mannerisms seemed forlorn. **_‘But you will not have it as you are.’_ **

“You let me be broken and battered! You let those murderers defeat me!” Arthur roared, grabbing a rock and throwing it. The warrior caught the rock in his gauntleted fist. “You didn’t help me kill those murderers! You. Lied. To. Me!”

 **_‘Your own weakness led to you being defeated,’_ ** the Warrior spoke. **_‘Your hesitation, your blind fury, your eagerness to be into the fray.’_ **

“You. Told. Me. To!” he screamed, his throat raw, failing him. Just like the Warrior did.

**_‘I gave you what you wanted, and it ended as it should. With your weakness shown to you in clarity beyond the certainty of sunrise.’_ **

“Enough of you,” Arthur hissed. “Enough of these games _you_ play with me. Give it to me, give me all the power you have, you made me a deal!” He let his power flare around him, sending clouds of dust, dirt and debris running from his might. “Now!”

 **_‘The coward who will not clad himself in our steel for fear of pain,’_ ** the Warrior jumped off of the building, landing right before Arthur. _**'T**_ ** _errified of the change he knows is happening, and you proclaim yourself worthy of things you are not prepared for.’_ **

Two metal cylinders ejected out of the warrior’s back. He tossed one of them to Arthur. He caught it. He realized what it was in a flash of memories. _A plasma saber_. Horror settled on Arthur.

 ** _‘Wielded by the blade instead of wielding it, sculpted by the world instead of sculpting it. Molded by his world instead of molding it.’_ ** The Warrior took off his helmet. **_‘Impure of metal, dull of edge, cracked of core, fat of weakness, overgrown of peace. Wrung dry of the purity of zeal, starved to death of rightous hunger, and faded to transparency of royal valor.’_ **

Grey horns gleamed iridescent, a jaw stretching from cheek to cheek, filled with vicious teeth smiled at him. **_‘By the Mandate, there is work to be done. ’_ **

“I’ll take what you promised me,” Arthur said, with a memory not his own, he ignited the weapon. 

**_‘I will give you that and more.’_ ** Red eyes burned with ruby fire. They disappeared, hidden beneath the helmet he discarded materializing over his head. **_‘I will make you a living sword of the Mandate. The incarnate murderer of false gods, the toppler of their thrones. The first curse and the last word. All that, and more.’_ **

Arthur swallowed, flinching as the Warrior took a step forward. “I’m not your tool.”

 ** _‘In the depths of the mind, there must be a fortress,’_ ** the Warrior started reciting, with a flourish, a blade of flame ignited from the cylinder. ‘ **_Its rooms must be many. Its throne, singular.’_ **

“I’m not your damned tool!” Arthur snarled, rushing at the Warrior, blade raised high. 

**_‘In the depths of the mind there must be an army,’_ ** the Warrior continued. **_Their banners, many. Their name, one.’_ **

With contemptuous ease, the Warrior kicked Arthur, sending him flying into a glass window. It cracked, fragments burying themselves in his skin. His back felt warm and wet. With a growl, he pushed himself to his feet.

He paused when he realized he’d fallen into a _familiar stance._ Blade held above his waist, left leg back, right foot front, grip tight but not too tight. Free hand prepared to... _to crush the spinal column._

 ** _‘In the depths of the mind, there must be hunger,’_ ** the Warrior’s helmet whirred. **_‘Its gnawing teeth, furious. Its appetite, endless.’_ **

The Warrior took three steps. His first shattered the road, his second sent him leaping. He was right in front of Arthur. Putting his shoulder and hip into the motion, Arthur slashed.

The Warrior’s third step reoriented him, part spin, part dodge, part side step, the attack missed the warrior. Then the Warrior slashed. Two strikes. 

**_‘In the depths of the mind, there must be zealotry,’_** the Warrior’s helmet showed dozens of hidden eyes, flashing only for the split instant light fell on them. **_‘Mindless thought to cut into shape reality. Its maddening wrath, the slave chains of fanatics.’_ **

Flesh popped. Blood exploded as it flash-boiled. His clothing caught fire, and pain was the only thing he understood. Arthur screamed. His right hand fell, its cauterized end boiling and frothing. His left leg rolled across the street. 

_This is not just a dream_ , the idea made him laugh. _It’s a nightmare._

Gently, the Warrior picked Arthur up by the neck. Tears ran down his face. Teeth gritted until they cracked. **_In the depths of the mind, there must be a palace._ **

He summoned his power, let it gather and _hurled_ it. The Warrior threw the cylinder at it, and an explosion burned and threw Arthur away, sending him rolling across the street. He gasped, his left fist slamming into the street, as he moved himself to his back.

The Warrior was above him. **‘** **_Its graveyard, a garden of headstones, each one of you. Each you the you of the past, of the skin shed, of the you slain, made dead and reborn.’_ **

“Gah!” Arthur bit out, everything ached and hurt. He still gathered his power, feeling the amethyst fire burn his skin as he let it out _._ It was deflected, a barrier forming and sending it skidding away.

**_‘Until your heart is immortal.’_ **

With a gesture of his hand, the Warrior’s own power _gripped_ Arthur. He was raised into the air. 

**_‘Until your fist is mailed.’_ **

The Warrior unsheathed his sword and held it like a javelin. Arthur’s heart pummelled in delirious fear. The sword was thrown, it speared through Arthur, sending him rocketing through air until it impaled a wall.

His blood coated the wall and the blade. His eyes opening and shutting.

 ** _‘Until the you standing before me is killed,’_ ** the Warrior was in front of him, squatting down in appraisal. ‘ **_Until the you of today is remade,’_ **in one flowing motion, the warrior tore out his sword and beheaded Arthur. 

**_‘Until then, there is work to be done.’_ **

Arthur awoke, screaming.


End file.
